Carry My Heart
by Bahrtok
Summary: 24 tributes enter a video game style arena. Rated M for violence and mature themes.
1. Let Me Die

**Tani, 18**

Golden swirls of glitter are glued to my face to match my stunning gold dress, which ends just below my thighs. Black satin gloves reach up to my elbows while my hair drapes gracefully down my back. I look truly beautiful, and yet I feel nothing. Because my best friend isn't here to see it, and there's absolutely no one else I want to show it to.

I don't want sponsors. I don't want allies. I don't even want to win. I just want Iskandar back.

"Your outfit doesn't fit?" I ask Kenneth, who has spent the last thirty minutes analyzing himself in a full-length mirror as we wait in the District 1 dressing room.

"It fits," he says without ever taking his eyes off of his body, encased in a golden tuxedo. "But does it capture the shining light of godliness that my soul emits?"

I smile to myself at his egotistical stupidity. My smile fades the minute he turns his shark's eyes on me.

"Take off your dress," he demands.

"What?" I ask in horror.

"Take off your dress."

"...No," I tell him, stunned.

"This tuxedo covers my chiseled body. I need something that shows more skin, like your dress. I have the thighs to pull it off, Tani. Switch with me."

"It's _my_ dress, Kenneth."

"So?"

"So it's _not yours._"

"I don't understand."

"It belongs to me!"

"Tani, if I want something, that makes it mine."

"I'm not switching with you!"

"I can't believe you're speaking to me this way! I want you banished! Banished for _eternity!" _He points his hand at me dramatically, as if he expects lightning to come shooting out of it.

This is going to be a long night.

**Revlin "Lin," 15**

Silence. It's been so hard to find these last few days. I knew I would find it here, though. I always find it here.

A cool rush of air conditioning hits me the second I enter the library; I take a deep breath, inhaling the beautiful smell of pages and pages of knowledge. My feet immediately take off for the non-fiction section. The Dewey Decimal System, my old friend, leads me once more to the treasure I seek. I pause at the number I've been looking for.

_616.8_

Psychiatric disorders.

I pull down a green book labeled _Psychiatric Disorders and the Mentally Ill Mind_ by Howard Overly. As I pull the book out, I discover behind it a human skull.

"Don't ever accept a dinner invitation from a man holding a human head on a platter," it tells me in an eerie voice. "That's a mistake you can't make twice."

"Hello, Keir," I say nonchalantly, returning my gaze to the open book in my hand.

"How'd you know it was me?" she asks as she steps around the bookshelf to stand before me, a living skeleton.

She looks like an x-ray; her stylists appear to have painted her body a deep, midnight black before adding a layer of glow-in-the-dark paint in the shape of her bones. A human skeleton from District 6, the medicine District. As far as costumes go, it's not bad, though it does lack the sex factor. Every other District portrays their female in a scantily-clad, prostitute-looking outfit that'll really make the men go wild, while Keir looks like a little boy in her costume.

"I knew it was you," I explain in a bored voice. "Because you spilled chocolate frosting on your ribcage. Chocolate frosting generally comes from chocolate cake. Chocolate cake is a comfort food. Your abrasive personality and generally uncaring attitude suggests some past psychological trauma has caused you to scare others away before they can hurt you. As a result of this, you're a very lonely person. Hence the comfort food, hence the chocolate frosting spilled carelessly on your wildly expensive outfit."

Her face contorts in an odd mixture of shock, hurt, embarrassment, and annoyance. I mentally record this reaction for later analysis.

"Gee, good job, nerd," she says sarcastically. "You read that in your stupid book?"

"I read that in several of my stupid books," I respond calmly and without lifting my eyes from the book currently in my hand.

"Whatever. Everyone's looking for you."

I wait a moment before turning slowly and cocking my head at the talking skeleton.

"They should be," I tell it. "I'm quite late."

"Well, they're really pissed. I heard the Gamemakers talking about punishing you in the arena. Blowing your big fat mouth clear off your face, stuff like that. So good luck with that."

She spins on her heel and stalks angrily to the door.

"Hey, Keir?" I call after her. She turns and waits in annoyance. "Did you come here just to warn me?"

"Don't flatter yourself. I had a little studying to catch up on." She lifts her hand to show me a small, red book she somehow picked up without my noticing.

The Karma Sutra.

"I haven't done the position on page sixty-seven yet," she says matter-of-factly, as though we're discussing something banal and mundane instead of her sex life. "And page ninety-three has a very... _detailed_ diagram that I've been dying to look at with a magnifying glass."

"...You're very vulgar," I say after a moment.

She smiles proudly before slipping out the door.

But if I've learned anything about Keir Rori in the past few days, it's that she's already been over the Karma Sutra with a magnifying glass. Several times. In fact, Keir Rori is the kind of person who probably has several dog-eared, very worn copies of such a book. She certainly wouldn't need to visit the library to pick up yet another copy.

Come to think of it, Keir Rori is not the kind of person who visits a library. Ever. Period. Which means she wasn't here for the book. Which means she was here to warn me. Which means she doesn't want my big fat mouth to be blown clear off my face. Which means...

What? What does it mean?

**Saren, 12**

Revlin is missing.

His orange prison jumpsuit hangs on the back of our dressing room door, untouched. Handcuffs hang off of my left hand, one cuff open and empty, waiting to imprison Revlin's wrist.

"This is a disaster!" Lemon, our escort, shouts at me. "You two are supposed to be two prisoners! Without him you're just _one_ prisoner!"

"Astute observation," Revlin commends sarcastically as he steps through the door.

"Revlin!" Lemon shouts. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Out. Perhaps you should arrest me?" He slips into the orange jumpsuit in mere seconds before offering me his hand. I click the empty cuff onto his right wrist, and our costume is complete.

District Two always goes with a Peacekeeper outfit. This year, our stylists decided to portray us as the other side of the law, their thinking being that Peacekeepers are scary, but prisoners are scarier. And who doesn't like a rebellious bad boy? Revlin will probably kill out there.

But putting a fifteen-year-old boy in a prison jumpsuit is quite different than putting a twelve-year-old girl in a prison jumpsuit, and I get the feeling I'm not going to be half as popular.

Marilynn would have had a good laugh over how silly I look. But then, wiping tears of laughter from her eyes, she would have fixed it. Because that's what she was: a fixer. She would have poured drawn pink skulls on my jumpsuit and doused me in glitter. She would have made me look cute, like a little girl playing dress-up.

You see, when someone dies, it's not the Christmases and birthdays without her that kill you. It's the moments when you get the most incredible news, and you immediately dial her phone number, only to remember that she isn't going to answer it. It's the time you cut your finger and know that it absolutely will not stop hurting until she kisses it.

It's every morning that you wake up and know that she isn't here anymore. That she's nowhere.

Because of Weston Shepp.

There are no sleeves on our jumpsuits; they've been torn off to make us look tougher, so all that remains is some jagged fabric above our shoulders. As our stylists come in the room to paint tattoos on our shoulders ('I Love Mom' for Revlin and a ferocious red dragon for me), a plan begins to form in my mind.

District 6 has to pay, one way or another. That's clear. I can't kill Weston, but I _can_ kill his tributes. And I will, for Marilynn. Angus and Keir might as well have targets on their heads; they're marked, and their time is running short. Angus lives with his head in the clouds; he's a sitting duck. I can take him out in the first five minutes. But Keir is bold, and seems to have nothing to lose. She's a weasel, and I have to be sure not to underestimate her. Luckily for me, my District partner is something of a genius when it comes to analyzing other people.

"I need to kill Keir," I confide in him as soon as we're alone in our chariot. It's nearly pitch-black around us, our only light coming faintly from two strips of blue lighting that glow softly on the floor. We're inside a long, dark tunnel, waiting for the doors to open and let all of the chariots through.

"What?" he asks quickly, turning his head to stare at me in alarm.

"I need to kill Keir, and I want you to tell me how to do it."

"...Why Keir? Out of everyone else, I mean?"

"She just... she threatened me. And I'm afraid."

Something changes in his face; he sees right through my lie. I should have known.

Revlin Trent is not someone who can be lied to.

"I wouldn't know," he tells me calmly after a moment. "I haven't been paying attention to Keir."

A lie for a lie. I suppose that's fair.

I know he's been watching Keir. He's been watching all of us. He already knows how to kill each and every tribute, and the Games haven't even started.

**Alice, 12**

"I'm afraid we can't do the lights show," Rollo tells our escort, Andre.

"Don't be silly," Andre says, waving off Rollo's concern. "It'll look adorbs."

"It's a blatant safety hazard. If our clothing catches on fire, we could suffer burns all over our body. It says so right in the manual. _Caution: do not wear lights on clothing. Doing so could result in-_"

"You're being a major buzzkill, sweetie." Andre squishes one of Rollo's chubby cheeks with his fingers.

"...I'm afraid we can't do the lights show."

"Omg, I am, like, _seriously_ gonna lose it if you don't put your costume on _right now_!" Andre yells, throwing his perfectly manicured hands into the air in exasperation.

"That isn't the proper usage of the word 'like.' It's actually only used when-"

"Nobody cares," Rafael says, cutting Rollo off as he walks lazily through the door. "Kid, you gotta put the costume on. You're embarrassing the hell outta me. All up and down the hallway people are laughing at the weirdo from District three who memorized the warning label on a box of _lightbulbs._"

"It's a safety concern," Rollo tells him simply. "And I just can't budge when it comes to my own personal safety."

"Rollo, do you not understand that you're about to go into an arena to fight to the death? Fuck safety!"

Rollo inhales sharply and his face turns bright red.

"You said the _F_ word!" he whispers angrily at Rafael, who rolls his eyes.

"Okay, here's the deal," Rafael says, turning to Andre and taking charge. "Rollo will wear the lights if, and only if, the little girl is carrying a fire extinguisher the whole time." He points to me.

"Are you insane?" Andre asks furiously.

"Sounds reasonable to me," Rollo says with a shrug. "I'll wear the lights."

I watch this scene unfold from my chair in the corner of our dressing room, flinching at every raised voice. Without any input from me, it's eventually decided that I'll carry a fire extinguisher in my arms during the entire chariot ride. Once this is finally agreed upon, Andre insists we try out the lights before getting into the chariot.

Rollo and I are dressed in black sweatpants and long-sleeved black shirts. We look extraordinarily plain until we both shoot our right arms into the air. The moment we raise our arms, the thousands of minuscule lights we're wearing flicker on, starting at our fingertips and reaching to our feet in a jagged pattern, giving off sparks of electricity as they do so. The effect is that it appears as though we're being struck by lightning.

"What do you think, buddy?" Rafael asks Rollo.

"I'll wear it," he grudgingly agrees. "But I want you to know that I'm not happy about it."

Rafael and Rollo high-five before Rollo and I climb into our chariot, ready to electrify the audience.

**Honora, 17**

"Oh, my God," I snap, staring at Demetri in horror. "_What_ are you wearing?"

"What, you don't like it?" he asks in surprise.

"What did you do to your outfit?"

"I bedazzled it," he says simply, as if the answer is obvious.

On the back of his outfit, red rhinestones spell out 'D-Money.'

"_Why?_" I ask.

"Because before the costume was all about our District. Now it's all about _me._ Isn't that much better?"

He was supposed to be a shark. His costume was insanely cool, complete with a realistic-looking fin and menacing teeth. And he _bedazzled_ it.

"What are you holding?" I ask quietly, afraid of the answer.

"Oh, these?" he hands me a tiny, wrapped item and confirms my fears. "Personalized condoms. I'm gonna throw 'em to the crowd."

Each condom wrapper has 'D-Money' written across it.

"I can sense your hesitation," he tells me, lifting a finger as if to say, _it gets even better._ "But think about it. Now every time the sponsors are doin' it... they'll think of me!"

I straighten the tail on my mermaid costume and try to imagine a single way in which this night could possibly go _well._

**Shiloh, 15**

District 5 wears a mad scientist costume again this year, although I can hardly blame them because there's really not much you can do with the theme _science_. I scoot past them on the way to my chariot, but find I still have quite a walk. I pass the living skeletons from District 6, but not without paying the price.

In the near-darkness, a glow-in-the-dark skeletal arm dangles out of the chariot, followed by a menacing, glowing skull.

"Ah, yes," it says in an eerie voice. "Come closer. Right where I want you. _Closer_."

I sidestep away from Keir and her glowing outfit, a little creeped out, and find myself next to the District 7 chariot. Patrick and Beni are dressed as fairies of the forest, though I swear I hear Patrick growl at me as I pass by. They both look frightening, with heavy black eye makeup and elfish features. I keep moving, barely stopping to look at the District 8 tributes, who look homeless. They're dressed in clothing that's been repeatedly patched up with differently fabrics.

Finally, I arrive at my own chariot and climb in next to Annalee. Coming from the hunting District, I'm dressed completely in camouflage and carrying an unloaded rifle, while Annalee, being thirteen, is dressed as an adorable little deer. She crinkles her nose, which is painted white, as I sit down next to her.

"Did you know that thirty-five percent of people who use personal dating services are already married?" she asks me.

"No, I did not," I answer pleasantly. Over the past few days I've gotten quite used to her random facts. Most of them are actually quite fascinating, and besides, I'd much rather have a District partner who's constantly reciting facts than one who could slice my head off with a flick of her wrist. Things could be worse.

"And we probably won't get any sponsors, either," Irene says. This seems to be the end of a long tale of negativity that she's been telling Alexei, who only seems to be half-listening as they walk past our chariot dressed as cowboys.

"Yee-haw!" Renton shouts from two chariots ahead of us. Alexei smirks and tips his hat at the other boy.

I lean out of my chariot to get a better look at Renton. He and his District partner, Elisabeth, are dressed as scarecrows. So it's not a myth; the costumes really do go down in quality as the District number increases.

Of course, as usual, no one has it as bad as District 12. Puck and Autumn walk by decked out in mining gear. Complete with pickaxes and mining helmets that are far too large for them and hang over their eyes to obstruct their view. Once the two take their seats in the final chariot, the doors ahead of us open and our chariots begin to roll.

Let the show begin.

**Weston, District 6 Mentor**

I sit in a booth with the other mentors as the chariots roll out. Luke, on my left, is in a sour mood because his tributes were once again stuck with shitty District 12 costumes, while Rafael, on my right, can be heard rubbing his hands together excitedly in a way that tells me he knows something's going to go wrong, but he isn't going to tell anyone because he could use a good laugh. So all in all, not a good way to start off the night.

Obviously, I can't see the costumes, so I listen carefully as Caesar describes each one into his microphone.

"Alright, ladies and gentlemen, get ready for a crazy night!" he begins. Nothing noteworthy occurs until District 3 pulls out, and an electric crackling is heard, quickly followed by a fire extinguisher being deployed. "Ladies and gentlemen, it appears that our District three male tribute is spraying his District partner with a fire extinguisher! He's shouting something, what is that?"

I listen carefully as Rollo's voice echoes throughout the stadium.

"I'm sorry!" he's saying. "I thought you were on fire!"

Rafael is laughing loudly beside me, and I understand that this is what he was waiting for. Nice, Raf. Real nice.

"Things are getting pretty heated down there, aren't they?" Caesar laughs. "Now, for some reason I'm seeing three tributes in the District five chariot, is that right? What's that, Jim? ...Ladies and gentlemen, I'm being told that the third figure in that chariot isn't a tribute, it's actually a sex doll. Look at those skeletons from District six! The boy looks like he's wearing some kind of cape with his outfit, and the girl is - the girl is dancing! Is everyone seeing this? A dancing skeleton! Hey, she's pretty good, too! That's great, what is that, hip-hop? And... oh, my. It looks like the District one boy just took off his pants. He's... he's showing the audience his thighs. I'm confused, Jim. What's going on down there? ...Ladies and gentlemen, I'm being told that District one is jealous of District four, who's throwing... I don't think I heard that correctly... Are you sure? ...Condoms? District four is throwing condoms, ladies and gentlemen. Wait, the skeleton just got out of her chariot... she's picking up condoms. The dancing skeleton is picking up condoms. How is that going over with the audience, Jim? ...Okay, I'm being told it's not going over well with them... Yeah, they don't like that. They don't like that at all."

Damn you, Keir. Rafael is straight-out guffawing by now, and even Luke is laughing.

"This has taken an interesting turn," Caesar continues, but I'm too angry to pay him much attention. "A very interesting turn."

Just wait until I get my hands on Keir.

**Abe, District 7 Mentor**

The shit really hits the fan after the show.

Everyone is running around blaming each other, yanking costume pieces off with mascara running down their faces, tripping on their high heels and falling on top of each other. It's complete chaos back here.

"But _why?" _Weston is shouting at Keir, whose skeletal arms are overflowing with condoms.

"How many times do I have to say it, West?" she shouts back. "Free condoms_ for life!"_

"You're not gonna _have_ a life if you can't get sponsors!"

"I know what this is about. You're upset because I didn't grab any for you, aren't you? You can _have_ some condoms, West, it's not like I'm gonna use _all_ of them. Just _most_ of them."

"I'm gonna kill you, Keir."

I shove my way further down the hallway to find Alice crying, covered in white crap from the fire extinguisher.

"I thought she was on fire," Rollo says simply. "And if she _had_ been, I could have been killed!"

Rafael is laughing too hard to say anything in response.

I see my own tributes, Beni and Patrick, up ahead of me, and I try to pass them without so much as glancing their way, but Patrick grabs me tightly by the arm. I spin in alarm; that _hurts. _I yank my hand away from him, but he refuses to let go. A smile plays across his face, and I realize he's enjoying this. Enjoying hurting me. And suddenly I don't see Patrick in front of me. I see Daniel.

Before he can even see it coming, I'm slamming Patrick into Beni. The pair fall to the ground and I straddle Patrick immediately; my fist instinctively pulls back and decks him across the face. He just smiles harder.

_Freak._

I slam his head forcefully into the ground with an audible crack. And he laughs.

"You can't hurt me," he cackles. "No one can!"

The entire hallway is hushed. They stare at me like I'm a freak. They're _afraid _of me. Afraid of the monster.

I want to scream; instead I slam my fist repeatedly into Patrick's ribcage. I slam his head around. Punch his face until his blood streaks across my own face. And then I turn to the crowd, my mouth curled into a snarl, my face covered in blood. Women shriek in horror; everyone scrambles over each other to get away from me.

I escaped the tigers. And in doing so, I became a tiger myself.

I reach for someone in the crowd, someone I _can_ hurt, and find my hands grasping Rafael's face. I slam it viciously into the wall behind him and he shouts in pain. His hands reach out and shove at my face, but it's like fighting a child. I smack his arms away and stare at him face-to-face. My eyes bore into his, and all I see is fear. Pure terror.

He is afraid of the tiger, and who can blame him?

Someone else grabs me from behind, their body slamming me to the ground, their hands wrapped around my head. I roll over so that he's underneath me. I bite into his hand and he struggles to free himself, only succeeding in tearing his skin on my teeth. I suspect my victim is Luke, but when I spin my head around I find the blind boy instead. _Weston_? Weston thinks he can take _me?_

I slam my elbow into his gut, but he manages to roll over so I'm below him once more. And then they gang up on me, him and Rafael. Rafael kicks my side and I writhe away as Weston grabs my collar and yanks me into a standing position. Before he can subdue me, however, I plant a kick squarely into his stomach and he doubles over in pain.

_"_What's_ wrong_ with you?" Rafael asks suddenly.

His words hurt more than any punch.

Why do they always think it's something wrong with _me_? Why isn't it ever something wrong with _them_?

I wasn't born a monster. They made me into one, with their taunting and teasing, their bullying and laughing. So why do they blame me?

As these thoughts race across my mind, I hesitate long enough for Weston to slam into me from behind. I fly forward, landing on the floor of the empty dressing room in front of me. Weston and Rafael jump in with me, slamming the door behind them. And for a moment, Rafael and I just stare at each other as the three of us catch our breath. Weston's eyes look at nothing.

"Patrick has a nerve ending issue," Weston says eventually. "He can't feel pain."

In response, I spit my own blood onto the floor and stare daggers at Weston and Rafael.

"Crazy bitch," Rafael snaps.

"She hit your head?" Weston asks him.

"Damn near took it off."

_Big baby_, I sign.

"What did you call me?" Rafael shouts at me.

"Raf!" Weston holds Rafael back with one arm. "Go ice your head, man."

"Fine! But I'm not doing it 'cause you told me to. I'm doing it 'cause I was almost decapitated today." Rafael huffs angrily before stomping childishly out of the room and down the hallway.

The moment Rafael leaves, Weston slides down the wall, clutching his stomach in pain. He didn't want Rafael to see him succumb to the hurt. Maybe because Rafael is such a mess, and Weston seems to be the only one holding him together.

"You're a fucking hurricane," Weston moans.

Hurricane. Is that what I am? I catch sight of myself in a full-length mirror on the wall and do a double-take. Blood coats my face. My hair is wild. My metal hand glints menacingly. I am afraid of my reflection.

When did I become so frightening? I remember Rafael's face when I had him in my clutches; pure terror. He knew. Knew that I could tear him apart for no reason at all. Just like the tigers. They tore into Bidzill. They tore into Remi. They tore into Avenaye.

The tigers didn't touch me, because they understood. Understood that I am one of them.

A tear slides down my face. Everyone hates me. _Everyone hates me. _I hurt people. And yet I can never stop hurting people, because they'll never stop hurting me. And just like that, the anger rises in my stomach once more and I want to punch someone. Want to bite into their skin and make them bleed. Want to-

"Hey, don't cry," Weston says, still catching his breath, wincing as he clutches his stomach.

He sees nothing, and yet he knows everything. Hot, angry tears slip down my skin, making me sniffle. But why should I cry? Someone else should be crying. I should go make someone else cry. I punch the wall angrily. Weston flinches.

"Shit," he says. "I see why the tigers left you alone."

I breathe in slow, shallow breaths. I will the tears away, but they only come faster. My loud breath, strained by tears, is as close as I will ever come to screaming.

"Abe. Abe, don't cry." Weston closes his blind eyes and takes his hand away from his stomach as though the pain has eased. "Hey, do you know what they're calling us? All the other Mentors? See no evil, speak no evil."

I have, in fact, heard them calling us this. And I happen to know for a fact that Rafael was the one who started it.

"And I've hit a few Mentors before, too. They just don't get it, Abe. None of them do. When you're missing something that everyone else has... it feels like you did something wrong. Like you did something to deserve being different. And that... it eats you. You can't let it get to you like that. 'Cause it hurts. It hurts like hell. Just don't listen to Rafael. He doesn't know. He doesn't get it. There's nothing wrong with you and me. We're just... we're missing something. And we spend our whole lives trying to replace it, and we never will. But we're not bad people. Just damaged."

Nobody knows. Nobody knows but him. I close my eyes and let his words wash over me. And I find, for just one brief moment, a sanctuary. I am not the only monster. I am not the only one that the world hates enough to take something from. Weston is a monster too.

And it doesn't fix anything. And tomorrow I'll still be angry and sad and mixed-up. But it does make it a little less painful. I am drowning in a sea of sorrow, and Weston has dipped his hands in the water and taken a handful out. It won't save me, but it's something.

I see Weston's face, and I know that he is drowning, too. But he isn't giving in like me; he isn't swimming to the bottom, begging the water to take him. He isn't fighting it, either, not swimming futilely against the current, desperately trying to reach the shore. He's just treading water. It's tiring, it hurts, and it won't save him, but it'll keep him breathing just a while longer.

_Let me die_, I beg the water. _Just let me die._

Because I'm tired of fighting.


	2. Wolves and Sheep

**First and foremost, I changed my pen name - I was just using Ikabod Crayne until I found something I wanted to stick with, but I promise this is definitely it and I won't be changing it again. Sorry for any confusion it causes!**

**Second, I recently realized that I've been pronouncing half of the tributes' names wrong in my head. Obviously it's not a big deal, but I looked up the pronunciations anyway, and evidently this is how you pronounce the less common names:**

**Tani (tah-nee)**

**Rollo (raw-low)**

**Keir (keer, rhymes with beer)**

**Beni (benny)**

**Mathias (muh-thay-us)**

* * *

**Also, I realize that I haven't mentioned the ages of most of the mentors and secondary characters, so I'll do that here. **

**Abe - 17**

**Findley - 19**

**Weston - 20**

**Rafael - 23**

**Luke - 19**

**Charity - 22**

**Ariadne - 25**

* * *

**And finally, I changed the title from Carry Your Heart to Carry My Heart. I felt nervous using the same title as the story that just got deleted, and decided not to take any chances. **

**On a related note, I was so amazed that nearly everyone followed me over from my last account! I was worried a lot of people wouldn't, but you guys are awesome; I can't thank you enough! =D**

* * *

**Weston, District 6 Mentor**

Twenty years on this earth, and what have I done with them? I've suffered through them, that's what. Do I really want to live for another twenty?

Tomorrow, bright and early, the tributes will be marched to their deaths. And yet I see no fighters. I see no tributes this year that are willing to stand up and say _don't push me. I'll push back. _I see no Abe.

Even _Abe_ isn't Abe anymore. She went into that arena a silent tiger; prideful and strong, willing to sink her teeth into anyone who dared to scream at her. And in the final hours of her Games, she became the tiger girl. The only one the beasts were afraid to touch.

But she came out as a wounded tiger licking its wounds; a prized fighter tired of being hit. What happens to us, I want to know? What makes us this way? Makes us die the moment we realize we're the last ones standing?

It's human nature. How can being the only one left make you a winner? Doesn't it just make you lonely?

We are born with only so many fights in us. Luke has yet to use up a single one his fights. My number is still ticking. Rafael is clocking overtime. Abe ran out.

So my question is, what happens when you use up all your fights, and then someone pushes you?

I guess you go down.

"Are we supposed to run to the Cornucopia?" Keir asks nervously.

Angus, Keir and I sit on a plush couch situated on the District 6 floor. In the polished kitchen across the room, Avoxes bustle about as they prepare Angus's nightly protein drink, a concoction I'm almost positive he made up, seeing as it consists only of egg yolks and Dr. Pepper.

"Keir, there's nothing in the Cornucopia you don't know how to scavenge for or make yourself," I tell her sternly, wanting nothing more than to help these kids avoid a horrendous death. I need to get my point across now; I need my voice to echo in their ears as they run through the arena. "Angus, you're going to need food. Don't get too close to the Cornucopia, but if you see anything useful hovering on the edge of the Cornucopia, go for it. Then you get the hell out of there, you got that?" He doesn't answer, so I can only assume he's nodding.

"And if they come after me, I should create a forcefield around myself, right?" he asks earnestly.

"No. The other tributes will know how to break through your forcefield. Just run." I've learned that the only way to get my point across to Angus is to speak his language; to pretend we live in Gotham City and anything is possible.

"What about the assigned allies?" Keir asks.

"Don't trust them," I tell her.

"My protein shake is ready," Angus declares. There's a large gulping noise as he slurps it down, and then a clatter as he tosses the glass aside. "I'll be in my lair. I need to rest up. Big day tomorrow."

I hear his door slam shut. Big day indeed.

After saying goodnight to Keir, I press the button that calls the elevator. Within a few seconds, the doors slide open and I hear something I'd rather not hear. Judging by the overwhelming smell of cologne, I'm in the elevator with Demetri, and judging by the sounds, he's eagerly making out with someone. An avox, I would guess.

"In the elevator, huh?" I ask Demetri calmly as I step into the elevator and blindly run my hand over the buttons, counting four down before pressing. The library.

"Only place without cameras," he says slyly before once again connecting his mouth to the avox's.

"Nice," I say, clasping my hands together and waiting for the elevator to reach my floor.

**Irene, 16**

It's nearly midnight. Soon we will all be marched to our deaths.

Using a screwdriver, I pull a vent cover off of my wall and climb into the dark, musty tunnel. I've spent the last week exploring these vents, searching out quiet spaces where I can finally be alone to think. Tonight I end my search above the library, leaning my back against the cold metal of the vent as I stare into the room from my perch high above. Much to my dismay, however, the library is neither empty nor silent.

"You slept with that her?" Luke is asking Rafael.

"That woman was a horse," Weston laughs.

"A la luz de la tea, no hay mujer fea," Rafael says beautifully, the words rolling easily off his tongue.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"By torchlight, there is no ugly woman."

"You're a pig!" Luke laughs.

"What are you doing in here, Luke?" a woman snaps as she comes marching through the door in a tight dress and high heels. I recognize her as Ariadne, the publicist who supervised the photographers who took pictures of every tribute. "You have to get up early tomorrow for your interview with Abe."

On cue, Abe sullenly shuffles in the door, Findley trailing close behind her. From around the corner, Charity, the addiction counselor who's been spending quite a bit of time with Rafael lately, comes out with a book. She must've been behind a shelf the entire time, patiently listening to the conversation taking place before her.

"I have the entire interview planned and written out," Ariadne continues. "I left it in my office. I'm going to go get it, and when I get back we're going to practice it. Luke, Abe, and Findley, that means you." She gives them a serious look, warning them not to leave, before leaving the library. Her heels can be heard clicking all the way down the hall.

Everyone in the room visibly relaxes.

"Findley, where you been, brother?" Rafael jovially asks the tiny, bespectacled man.

Findley's eyes bug out in surprise, as if he can't quite believe that Rafael is talking to him.

"Findley, you look like you're wound just as tight as Ariadne," Rafael continues. "The witch is gone, buddy. You can relax."

"I... I am... relaxed," Findley stumbles to say.

"I can't believe they've got you speaking for Abe. You can barely speak for yourself."

Findley's face burns in shame and he lowers his eyes to the ground.

"No, I'm not insulting you," Rafael says, walking over to Findley and placing his hand on the small man's shoulder. "In fact, I'm gonna help you. The whole world's gonna be watching you tomorrow, Finny. You ready for that?"

Findley nods, but remains too embarrassed to lift his head.

"You gotta learn to relax. Hey, you ever danced before?" Findley shakes his head no. "Are you serious? Then I guess I have to teach you."

Luke and Weston smile in anticipation. Charity seems game, watching excitedly from the corner. Abe and Findley are the only two who don't seem to be looking forward to the event; Findley stares at Rafael in horror, while Abe simply looks at the pair dubiously. Meanwhile, Rafael jogs over to the librarian's desk, where a small radio sits next to the computer. The one time I entered the library, I noticed the uptight old lady listening to classical music that floated softly from the speakers. Rafael flicks the radio on, flipping through the channels until he finds a Spanish station, and spins the dial up to full volume; upbeat salsa music echoes through the room.

"Now, I'm about to do you a big favor, buddy," Rafael informs Findley. "Women don't like men who can't dance. Trust me, as soon as you learn how to dance you'll finally lose that virginity of yours."

Findley's face turns beet-red. With a smirk on his face, Rafael grabs Findley's hip with his right hand, and uses his left hand to take Findley's right hand.

"You gotta count it out, okay?" Rafael instructs. "Ready?"

He shoves Findley forward roughly and maneuvers Findley's body as he counts to eight. As soon as he reaches eight, he starts all over again. Findley stiffly allows his body to be moved for him, his face getting a brighter red by the second. The room erupts in laughter when Rafael dips Findley like a delicate lady.

"You think that's funny?" Rafael asks Luke, a smile playing across his face. "Bet you couldn't do any better."

Rafael grabs Luke's hand and yanks him out of his seat. Findley immediately sits down, breathless and thoroughly embarrassed. Rafael is able to glide beautifully with the beat, and was clearly born to dance. Luke, on the other hand, is stiff and jerky with his movements, constantly stepping on Rafael's toes.

"Hey, bigfoot, I gotta swap you out," Rafael says, shoving Luke at Charity, who happily places her hands on his hip and shoulder. Luke's face burns nearly as red as Findley's, but Charity isn't embarrassed in the slightest; she gives Luke a brilliant smile and melodious laugh as they clumsily dance together.

"What about you, West?" Rafael asks his next victim.

"I don't dance," Weston answers simply.

"Why not?"

"I can't _see_, you ass," Weston says with a smile.

"You don't _see _when you dance. You _feel_." Rafael then proceeds to teach Weston to move with the rhythm.

Everyone, save for Findley and Abe, is laughing and dancing goofily when Ariadne walks in. Charity, Luke, and Weston look at her with worry on their faces. Without missing a beat, Rafael grabs Ariadne and pulls her tightly against his own body.

"Someone as... _flexible _as you... must be a pretty good dancer," Rafael purrs seductively.

Surprise crosses Ariadne's face momentarily before she grins devilishly, digging her nails into Rafael's neck as she wraps her arms around him and dances violently with him. The rest of the group laughs as she turns the tables on Rafael and easily manages to out dance him. He's left desperately trying to keep up with her as he painfully endures her brutal dancing, which includes shoving him harshly against the wall and even dipping him like a woman and promptly dropping him.

The song trails off and ends, leaving everyone standing around awkwardly. Another song comes on, but everyone seems hesitant to be the first to begin dancing again; the merriment would have stopped and everyone would have gone back to their silent, empty rooms had it not been for Charity.

"I haven't danced with Weston yet," she says happily, throwing her arms around him with a giggle. Following the lead of the bubbly girl, Ariadne raises her eyebrows at Luke, who shrugs off all of their differences and dances with her. I notice she saved all of her anger for Rafael, as she tones down considerably with Luke and actually seems to enjoy herself.

But the biggest surprise comes from Rafael, who saunters over to Abe and hovers over her. She stares up at him warily, and he smirks in return. And then he offers her his hand; a peace offering; an olive branch. Narrowing her eyes suspiciously at him, she takes his hand. He pulls her into a standing position and places his hand on her hip; she immediately tries to bolt, but he has a strong grip on her and simply pulls her closer to him.

"Whatsa matter?" he asks with a mischievous grin. "Afraid of me?"

She places her shaking hands on his shoulders as he slides his own hands over her hips. He laughs as she struggles to learn the dance he's teaching her. Luke watches the pair with thinly veiled anger in his eyes; Weston hovers near them, an inquisitive look on his face as he tries to judge the scene based on what he's hearing. It's a well-known fact that Abe is a serious individual, so for her to be dancing is a very strange phenomenon indeed, but for her to allow Rafael to place his hands on her is even stranger.

"Yeah, that's it," Rafael tells Abe, a happy smile on his face as she finally grasps the basics of what he's been teaching her. "Just like that." They share a laugh, Abe's silent but no less happy, and I begin to see something in Abe's face. She likes Rafael. She _like_-likes Rafael.

Abe stares up at him with a softness in her eyes that I doubt anyone's ever seen before. She only has eyes for him, and her face lights up with a smile every time he offers her a grin of his own. But the feelings are clearly not mutual, as Rafael's gaze constantly wanders over to Ariadne's chest, which is nearly exploding out of her tiny dress, heavily made-up face, and ass. It's immediately clear to me that dancing with Abe is merely a kindness he's doing for her, and nothing more. She's so obviously lonely and hurting, always on the outskirts of every group, so he reached out a hand not because he liked her, but because he felt bad for her.

I feel my eyelids drooping as another round of laughter takes over the group. Slowly, my vision blurs and turns to black. The last thing I think before I fall asleep is how interesting it is that, on the very last night before our deaths, the very last chance there is to learn something that could very possibly save our lives, three of our Mentors are goofing around and dancing and the rest are asleep.

People suck.

**Keir, 16**

Angus steps into his tube before the countdown even begins.

I hesitate, watching Angus as he prepares a superhero pose for the audience. I'm not ready.

"Remember," Weston tells me quickly. "The first five minutes are the most important. You'll have to run like lightning to get away from them, Keir. The others have already picked you out as one of the weakest. _Run_."

For a moment I can't breathe. Then the panic passes, and I sigh in annoyance.

At some point in our lives, we must all choose whether we are going to be lions or lambs; wolves or sheep. And as much as I want to be a wolf, I believe there is something noble in being a sheep. In laying down and peacefully surrendering. In walking into death's arms willingly.

That's what I aim to do.

My father is a smart man. Everything he says is true. He only knows facts; opinions don't exist in his world, for they aren't real. They are simply distortions of the truth. My entire life, I've known one thing: if my father says it's going to happen, it will.

When he came to the goodbye room, he set my death in stone.

"You're not going to come back," he said simply. He wasn't being cruel or unkind; he was only stating a fact that he knew was true. My father doesn't understand emotions; he has no need for them. He simply says the truth, not realizing how much words can hurt.

"Okay," I said, because there was really no way to respond to what he'd just told me.

"Okay," he said. After several minutes of silence, the Peacekeepers escorted him out. And that was it.

We are very damaged people.

"Weston?" I ask calmly.

"Yeah?"

"You've got to apologize to Saren before she goes into the arena. Otherwise you'll hate yourself forever."

"You're pretty smart," Weston says, surprised.

"I just know how to deal with things."

"And how do you know that?"

"I have a dysfunctional family. I know how to take care of myself."

"Yeah, well I feel like someone just punched me in the stomach. I don't know how to fix that."

"I do. My mom used to punch me in the stomach all the time. She'd come in the door, say 'I'm home, Keir,' and _BAM_!"

"Why would she do that?"

"So that I didn't grow up to be a big pussy like you."

He chuckles.

"So how do you get over it?" he asks me.

"Easy. Bow your head and submit to whoever hit you. Eventually they'll stop."

"Did your dad hit you, too?" Weston asks quietly. I'm uncomfortable with this conversation turning to the flaws in my own life, but I'd tell Weston anything he wanted to know. Hell, I'll tell my life story to anyone who's nice to me for two minutes.

"My dad's not into physical contact," I say in a monotone, hating to bring up my family. "He's never even touched me before."

"...That must be weird."

"I don't need him." This is a lie. I need my father more than I need oxygen. I just don't get to have him.

"I'm not going to win," I tell Weston now.

"You don't know that," he says calmly.

"My father told me. And he never lies."

"Your father told you you weren't going to win?" Weston asks in disbelief.

"We don't beat around the bush in our family."

"Keir, listen to me. Your chances of winning are just as good as everyone else's."

"When my father says something will happen, it always happens."

And so today I am going to die.

"Your father is wrong this time," Weston says simply. "I'm gonna help you win."

With his right arm, he pulls me to him and gives me a strong hug. He feels like a father should; solid, immovable.

It is in this moment that I realize exactly what I've been missing for sixteen years. It is in this moment that I realize exactly how alone I really am. It is in this moment that a cold anger courses through me.

Why should I suffer today? Haven't I already suffered enough? Why do I have to be the sheep?

Something cruel settles in the pit of my stomach, and I make my choice.

Today I will be the wolf.

**Saren, 12**

So this is how Marilynn felt. Scared, alone, horrified.

And yet there is still something else. Something small, nearly undetectable. A tiny thought in the corner of my mind.

What if I can do this?

What if I win?

Hope of all hopes, dream of all dreams. And yet it's not impossible. One in twenty-four isn't a bad statistic. It's a four percent chance of winning, sure, but it's not one in a million. Just twenty-four.

A fire begins to kindle in my heart. What if? Pride slices through my veins like delicious poison; I can be a Victor. I'm good enough. I can do this.

"Saren!"

I spin around and come face-to-face with Weston Shepp.

"How'd you get in here?" I ask, my voice turning cold.

"Saren, I didn't want to kill your sister."

"Could've fooled me."

"Marilynn was my ally! I just... only one of us could win. She would've killed me, you have to understand that. I did what I had to do. I didn't want to kill her."

"And yet you did. So where does that leave us?"

I may sound heartless, but you have to understand. What if someone stabbed your sister, your brother, straight through the gut? Marilynn never did anything to hurt Weston. She helped him. She trusted him. And he gutted her like she was an animal.

"Saren," Weston begs, breathing heavily from his long run over to the District 2 launching room. "You have to forgive me before you go up there. Please."

I look at this man, this monster. And I feel a hatred burn through my body like fire.

"No," I whisper.

My tube closes and the world goes mute. The last thing I see before I'm lifted into the arena is Weston standing before my tube, his mouth hanging ever so slightly open, a tender sadness in his dead eyes.

"I love you, Marilynn," I whisper to my hands as I press them against the glass, terror ringing in my ears like an alarm.

But I need not be scared.

I know she'll keep me safe.

**Micaela "Mike," 16**

_It began on a cloudy, rainy day in District 5. And it will end today. A circle._

_The rain fell softly, droplets sliding down my tongue. I could almost feel the liquid swimming through my intestines; soon I would deposit it into the soil, where it would wait for the sun to carry it away. Up to the clouds. Until it fell back down on my tongue, another droplet._

_A circle._

_What a beautiful shape._

"Cal," Rafael begs my District partner as the countdown begins. "Leave Lola here. I'll take care of her, I promise."

"Lola needs me," Cal says softly. "I promised her I wouldn't leave her behind."

_I vaguely became aware of a boy swinging a yo-yo beside me. With five brothers, I could never truly be alone. I watched in excitement as the yo-yo spun on its string; watched gravity in action. How amazing. Another circle._

_And wasn't everything? With my right hand, I drew a circle in the air before me. And another one. And another. Everything. Everything, everything, everything. Is a circle._

"Fine," Rafael sighs. "If you're gonna keep the doll, you'll have to ally with someone sympathetic. Look for Alexei, maybe. Or Mathias. Saren would be best. Or Elisabeth. Mike, how are you holding up?"

"Symmetrically," I answer calmly. Dying will only complete my circle; living will only prolong it. Either way I will be satisfied. As long as I am in my circle, I will be okay. No matter where that circle may be.

_How utterly perfect. A cackle began in my throat, soft and low. It quickly grew in volume as my revelation spun around me in, you guessed it, a circle. And it wasn't long until I was downright guffawing; how had I not noticed this before? The perfect symmetry of the world? For isn't the Earth itself a circle? Don't the solar systems revolve in circles? Isn't everything... a circle?_

_"Shut it, Mike!" my brother snapped. My cackling had distracted him; he was one with his yo-yo, nearly finished with a complex and nigh impossible trick he'd been practicing for hours. He turned to look at me as he scolded me and, with his eye off the yo-yo, quickly lost control of the thing. It flew directly at my head. _

"Now do you see why I drink?" Rafael asks Charity in annoyance.

"Don't think about drinking," Charity orders. "Pay attention to what's going on."

Rafael rolls his eyes, but obeys nonetheless. Cal hugs Lola as he steps nervously into his tube. I follow suit on my own side of the room.

_I recall a cracking noise. Blackness. Blurry faces staring down at me under bright lights. Hospital gown on my body. _

_Growing up with five brothers, I was no stranger to the hospital. We were there so often, we practically had our own room. But this time the doctors found nothing wrong. They scratched their heads and listened to my circle rant. They guessed brain damage; started up their machines. And still they found nothing. _

_So we went home. Home, hospital, home. A circle. Right back to beginning. _

_I've known the world's secret ever since. The secret of circles. _

The tube slides shut and I'm lifted out of the underground room, into the light.

**Beni, 16**

A tree falls in the forest. If you forget that it fell, did it still make a noise?

Does it matter?

All of a sudden Patrick comes racing into the District 7 launch room; he's in Abe's face in an instant.

"I'm coming out of that arena alive," he tells her menacingly. "And if you don't help me while I'm in there, I'll kill you the second I get out. Remember that."

Abe turns her head away from him in submission. Abe is afraid of him. I can't for the life of me figure out why, but if _Abe_ is afraid of Patrick, then Patrick must be a monster. The way he just threatened Abe only proves it.

The countdown begins. Patrick slowly backs away from Abe and steps into his tube. I step into my own tube, telling myself over and over to remember to stay away from Patrick. He's pure evil. Stay away. Evil. Patrick.

Glancing to my left, I see a boy standing in a tube. I search my brain for his name. Patrick? He looks nice. I decide he would make a good ally.

Where am I?

Why is the floor rising?

**Rollo, 14**

"Rollo?" Rafael calls, racing into the room. "Rollo!"

He grabs me with his strong arms and wraps me into a tight hug.

"I thought they took you up already," he breathes. "Thank God you're still here."

"I don't think I can go," I say tightly into his shirt, afraid I won't be able to hold the tears back any longer. "I'm sick. I'll try again next year."

"I know you don't want to, Rollo," Rafael says quickly, afraid of running out of time, as he puts his hands on my shoulders and looks directly into my eyes. "But you'll be okay, alright? I'll be watching you the whole time. I'm not gonna let anyone hurt you. Just be smart. You'll be fine, I promise."

"Sixty," the announcer booms.

"Nunca es tarde cuando la dicha es buena," Rafael whispers to me.

_It is never too late for joy. _

Rafael shoves me into the glass tube and stands in front of me as the door slides shut. I put my hand on the glass; he puts his hand on the other side. And we stand, separated by two worlds. The living and the dying.

He says something, but I can't hear. That's okay. I don't need to. I know what he's saying.

_Win._

**Abe, District 7 Mentor**

When I fell asleep last night, I could still feel Rafael's hands on my hips. I could still see his handsome brown eyes looking into my own as he smiled at me. I could still hear him whispering to me.

_Whatsa matter? Afraid of me?_

My stomach twists. Is this what it feels like when you love someone?

He comes down our hallway, where I've been waiting the past half hour. His viewing room is directly across the hall from mine, his being the room for Districts 5 and 6, mine being the room for Districts 7 and 8. I smile at him, the butterflies in my stomach nearly making me sick. He barely glances at me, offering a quick wave in my direction. When he realizes I'm still staring at him, he does a double-take.

"...What?" he asks, holding his head with his left hand.

I stare at him; doesn't he remember I can't speak?

He winces, gripping his head even tighter, and I realize he's very hungover. After another moment of silence, he brushes past me and reaches for the doorknob. Just as he's turning it, Ariadne comes marching down the hallway in a new set of painfully high heels.

"Rafael," she whispers fiercely, leaning in alarmingly close to him. She glances at me as though I'm intruding, but Rafael waves this notion away.

"It's okay," he tells Ariadne. "She's a freaking mute, who's she gonna tell?"

I feel my face blush lightly as my stomach burns.

"...I left my phone in your room," Ariadne whispers tightly.

"Then go get it," Rafael says, as though this solution was obvious.

He shoves by her and disappears into his viewing room, leaving a stunned Ariadne standing in the hallway with her mouth wide open. After a moment, she stamps her foot angrily before composing herself, brushing off her tight dress, and checking her makeup in a compact mirror that she pulls out of her purse.

"What are you looking at?" she snaps at me suddenly, a disgusted look on her face. "Weirdo." She snaps her mirror closed and marches back down the hall.

_Weirdo. _

_Freaking mute._

They're all the same. Everybody in the world. Everyone but Findley. Brushing an angry tear from my eye, I step into my own viewing room, hoping for nothing more than my friend. And, just like always, Findley is there for me. He's always early, always glad to see me, and always ready to take care of any problem I present to him.

"Good morning, Abe!" he says brightly, handing me a glass of hot coffee and pulling out my seat for me.

Good old Findley.

_How much longer?_ I sign.

"Thirty seconds," he answers, pointing to the screen. I follow his finger and see the countdown number in the righthand corner.

Just as the countdown reaches twenty, the door opens and the District 8 Mentor comes shuffling in.

"Nice to see you again, Buford," Findley says politely.

Buford grunts. He glances at the screen, grunts again, and plops his old, plump body into the seat next to mine. Without so much as looking at his tributes, he pulls out a crossword puzzle and sets to work.

"You've got some nice tributes this year," Findley says nervously.

"Be nicer if they were already dead," Buford answers grumpily.

Findley's smile fades and he turns back to the screen, unsure how to respond to that.

Onscreen, the countdown pauses at ten.

"Attention tributes," the head Gamemaker says, his voice echoing across the black screen. "Before you see the arena, I have a brief announcement. I will now announce the rules, followed by the two-tribute teams. This is not a normal arena. You are in level one. There are twenty-three flags scattered around the arena. Only those with a flag will proceed to level two. The rest die. Each level will feature a different landscape and less flags. Each level will be increasingly dangerous."

It's a video game. Good. Level one will be simple; a walk in the park. I won't need to do anything at all.

"As previously stated, each tribute will receive a teammate. If any team becomes the final two tributes standing, they will both be crowned Victors. Here are the teams."

Through the darkness, two faces appear.

Honora and Cal.

After a moment, they're replaced by two more faces. Alexei and Angus. It continues in this fashion for several minutes, until every face has appeared in the sky.

Mathias and Beni.

Revlin and Demetri.

Saren and Elisabeth.

Autumn and Patrick.

Renton and Annalee.

Keir and Rollo.

Puck and Mike.

Tani and Irene.

Kenny and Natia.

Shiloh and Alice.

Once the final face disappears, I'm overwhelmed by a flash of light. The entire arena is lit up, and I see that it's a football field. Twenty-three flags rest on one end, twenty-four tributes on the other. Simple. No weapons, no traps. All they have to do is cross the football field and grab a flag without getting killed by another tribute.

And yet some of them will still manage to screw it up.

* * *

**So those were the teams! I'll put them on my profile, along with the tribute list, as soon as I get the chance. I hope they're okay with everyone (it took me _forever_ to make the list), but remember that just because a tribute didn't get paired with another tribute doesn't mean they won't _ally_ with that tribute. In fact, I've already planned that at least four of the tributes won't ally with their assigned partner. I tried to create the assigned partners so that they'd be odd couples, and wouldn't necessarily work well together and therefore would have to learn how to be a better team, but I'm planning on grouping different pairs with other different pairs for the alliance, so that they'll still be in an alliance with people that they actually get along with. The next chapter will definitely show the teams! =D**

**If there are any teams you'd like to see, I always love suggestions. I know it probably feels like I always ask for suggestions, but it's because it actually does help me! :)**

**Thanks!**


	3. Hope is Dead

**It's been months, and this chapter is totally different than what you're expecting. This is a time skip - ten years into the future. I decided to do this because I've been having major writer's block with this story, so I'm going to alternate between the current Games and everything the Mentor's do, and ten years in the future and all the repercussions those actions from ten years ago have on the Mentor's lives now. **

**I know that it's completely different, but it's been swimming around in my head forever, and I just had to write it. Don't worry, your tributes are still going to fight each other to the death in the arena, it's just going to be intertwined with the story of the Mentors ten years in the future, after something horrible occurs. **

**It's going to focus mainly on Rafael, Luke, and Weston, and their relationship ten years into the future. It's going to get very, very strained, and people are going to die. It'll be a mystery, as you'll see by the end of the chapter, and it'll all tie back to things that they did ten years ago, during the Games. **

**I really hope you like this turn of events! Please, please review and let me know what you think! =D**

* * *

**Rafael Rivera, Age 33, District 5**

"Fruit Loops?"

Ben shakes his head no.

"Cookie Crisp?"

Another head shake in the negative.

"Cocoa Puffs?"

A vigorous no.

"Why not?"

His fingers twist and wave in answer. Those goddamn hands. I would give anything to cut them clean off his skinny little arms.

Because he has his mother's hands. And I hated those hands.

"No, Ben. Tell me this time."

A flurry of hand signs.

"Use your words."

More hand motions.

"I said _talk_ to me!" I bark at his eight-year-old face, violently grabbing his wrists and gripping them tightly enough that he can't sign anymore.

His large eyes flicker to the ground, avoiding my gaze; he slumps downward, visibly making himself smaller as his body collapses in on itself. That's Ben: always trying to disappear before my very eyes.

"Unhealthy," he tells me sadly.

"What?"

"They're unhealthy. A sugary breakfast is the first step towards childhood obesity."

I stare at him blankly, wondering how on earth my son grew to be so different from me.

"I'm not allowed to eat unhealthy cereal," Ben continues. "It's one of Mom's rules."

I grind my teeth together in an effort to keep my frustration from turning into violence again.

"Mom's not here anymore," I tell my son calmly. "No more Mom's rules. Now it's Dad's rules, and you can eat Fruit Loops for breakfast."

I painfully offer him a smile, because I know this will please him; what kid doesn't want sugary cereal for breakfast? There'll be no more moping in this house - I'm a cool dad, and Ben's about to realize that.

"I don't _want_ Fruit Loops for breakfast," he says calmly. "I _like_ Mom's rules."

A flame of anger rises through my chest and my hand immediately reaches out to slap Ben across the face. But I'm more than fifteen years out of that arena, and I'm not allowed to attack children anymore. Ben watches calmly, his expression never changing, as I slam my hand on the table instead. Reaching for the array of colorful boxes I so carefully laid out this morning, expecting Ben to smile with joy at my surprise, I snatch the Fruit Loops from the table and rip the box open.

"You don't want any of this stuff?" I ask him angrily, steadily pouring the cereal evenly across the kitchen floor. "Fine. Then don't eat." Tossing the empty box to the floor, I shove past Ben and up the stairs. "Clean that shit up," I order over my shoulder.

From the top of the stairs, I watch silently as my son kneels on our beautiful kitchen tiles and begins to scoop a rainbow of Fruit Loops into the garbage with his precious little hands that kill me to look at.

**Weston Shepp, Age 30, District 6**

"Can you pack Anka's bag?" Kallie hurriedly asks me, her voice tight with agitation.

"How am I supposed to pack the bag when I can't see where anything is?" I ask, equally agitated.

"I can't pack her bag and dress her at the same time, West."

"She's _ten_, Kal, she should be able to dress herself."

"Well, she _can't_, Weston, and you know that." Dresser doors slam as Kallie furiously tries to find an outfit Anka will agree to wear. "What about this dress, Anka?"

"I don't wear dresses," Anka responds robotically.

"We're going to a wedding, sweetie. You have to wear a dress."

"I don't wear dresses."

"I know, baby, but I need you to wear it just this once, for me, okay?"

"I don't wear dresses!" Anka repeats loudly.

"Anka, please!"

"_I don't wear dresses!_" Her scream is shrill, and I angrily cover my ears. Reaching blindly in front of me, I grab the first piece of fabric I can find.

"What about this one?" I ask, with no idea what I'm holding.

This time Anka's scream is a wordless one, and seems to have no end.

"_I'm the only one she lets touch her clothes!"_ my wife screams at me.

"I forgot!" I scream back in righteous indignation.

"Get out! Just go, you're making it worse!"

I back into what I think is the hallway but is actually the wall. Anka screams louder, and I cover my ears as I try to navigate out of her bedroom without the use of my hands. My bare foot collides painfully with the nightstand and I curse, which makes Kallie shout at me in anger and Anka's scream go completely shrill. Finally, I shove my way into the hallway and slam Anka's bedroom door behind me.

"We're already late!" I shout at the closed door in an effort to reassert myself as the one in charge. "Hurry up!"

"If you're not gonna wait, just leave without us!" Kallie shouts back.

"Maybe I will!" I hover in the hallway a moment, waiting for her to apologize and ask me to wait. She doesn't. "I'll be waiting in the car!" I shout angrily, stomping my way down the staircase and out the door.

"Would you like me to guide you to the car, Master Shepp?"

"No," I snap at my chauffeur before tripping over a suitcase and scraping my knees against the pavement, tearing the fabric on my brand-new suit. "...I changed my mind."

"Of course, sir." Chester's hand grips my arm strongly as he guides me, humiliated, to the door of my limo.

The moment I'm seated I wave him away, listening as he repositions himself outside my front door, patiently waiting for Kallie and Anka to emerge.

Anka.

There were doctors. There were psychiatrists. There was Kallie's worried face as her three-year-old shrieked at the slightest touch. And then there were the words.

Autistic. Spectrum. Genetic. No cure.

And the accusations.

Genetic flags. Family history. Paternal.

_You're fault. _

And now there is the living with it.

I sit on my hands to stop them from shaking. Eventually I hear Kallie come out the front door and ask Chester to store Anka's bag under the front seat. That fucking bag. It's a small red duffel bag, but it manages to hold Anka's life inside it.

Her worn Nancy Drew book rests in the side pocket - the seventh one in the series, the only one she'll read. For her sixth birthday I gave her a box collection of the first ten books; I wrapped it up in silver paper, her favorite color, and waited impatiently for her to open it, sure that she'd finally love me. Sure that this was the thing we'd bond over. Nancy Drew. As Kallie told me afterward, Anka tore the silver paper off, held that box set in her lap, and shook so hard Kallie thought she was dying. Still shaking, she'd ripped the pages out of every book but the seventh. Grabbing her worn copy and comparing it to its shiny, brand-new duplicate, she threw the new book into the cake Kallie had spent three hours baking and decorating, asking only that this one minuscule part of her daughter's life remain untouched by her autism.

The next part Kallie didn't have to describe to me, because I heard it just fine. I heard my daughter moan. Curled up on a mess of torn mystery books, cradling an old copy of Nancy Drew #7 to her chest, my daughter moaned as though her life had just been torn into a thousand scraps of paper. Later that night she was mimicked by her mother, who cried incessantly through the night, pulling away every time I tried to comfort her, avoiding my touch like the plague.

We don't celebrate Anka's birthday anymore.

The rest of Anka's duffel bag is stuffed haphazardly with a red blanket, a plastic bag filled with an array of multi-colored pill bottles, two changes of clothes (in case the tag on the shirt she's wearing is so itchy it makes her scream, or a stranger's arm brushes against her coat and she immediately needs to take it off), and everything else Kallie and I need to keep our daughter together.

"I don't wear dresses," my daughter tells me as she joins me in the limo.

I open my mouth to respond, but instead hear the tell-tale click of her red earmuffs closing over her ears. Anka can zone the whole world out simply by putting on her red earmuffs, and this is why she always has them either around her neck or over her ears.

"You don't even try to help," Kallie snaps at me as she climbs into the limo herself. The car door slams and we begin to move.

"I _tried_, and you yelled," I retort.

"Because you were doing it wrong!"

"What's Anka wearing?" I ask stiffly, changing the subject.

"Sweatpants and a Nancy Drew t-shirt."

"What the hell, Kallie? We're going to a wedding!"

"She doesn't wear dresses, Weston!"

"Then we shouldn't have brought her!"

"Where would we leave her? With a babysitter? She'd scream until her lungs gave out, you know we can't leave her alone overnight!"

"She wouldn't be _alone_, she'd be with a babysitter-"

"She needs one of us in the house at night. She just does. I can't change my daughter, and I can't ask her to change just so I can go to a wedding."

"_Our_ daughter."

"What?"

"She's not just _your_ daughter. She's mine, too."

"Sometimes I wish she wasn't your daughter, Weston."

My face burns as though she'd slapped me.

I turn and pretend to stare out the window, even though all I see is darkness, no matter where I look.

**Rafael Rivera, Age 33, District 5**

"You need help, buddy?" I ask Ben.

He silently shakes his head no, using his hands to sign _thank you_.

"When we get there, no sign language, okay?"

_Why not?_

Because everyone will think of your mother.

"Because people will think you're weird," I answer pointedly. "And no one will understand you."

_Findley understands me._

Every muscle in my body freezes.

"New rule, okay? You're not allowed to talk to Findley anymore."

Ben's wide eyes stare up at me in sadness. There is no confusion; he knows that my rules, like my moods, change like the flip of a switch.

"How come?" he asks, his voice so unused that it's nearly foreign to me.

Because he wanted to fuck your mom. Because he maybe did fuck your mom.

"Because he lies," I spit out, angrily adjusting my tie.

"I can't do this," Ben says suddenly, turning to me in alarm. His bow tie is slightly crooked. "It's not right."

I stand behind my son, both of us positioned directly in front of the mirror, and adjust his bow tie. I wonder how long it's been since I've touched him not out of hatred, but out of love. I think this is probably the first time.

I tried; I really did. Little League. Cub Scouts. But while all the other dads proudly took pictures of their sons standing in uniform, a new badge stitched lovingly among the others, I sat on a bench with my son while he read an illustrated book on the human anatomy, his own uniform clean and void of any badges. While all the other dads cheered their sons on as they ran to first base, or caught a stray ball in the outfield, I sat in the dugout diligently applying sunscreen and bug spray on my son every half hour (as per his orders), and spraying Neosporin on every paper cut he'd get from reading his big book of Sherlock Holmes, which he'd only put aside so I could dutifully wrap his paper cut in a sterile bandaid taken from his first aid kit, which he never leaves home without.

After a few weeks I quit trying, dropped him out of the groups, and got him a library card. Now a steady pile of books rests on his nightstand, the titles changing every day. And every time I stare at them, I ask God why on earth they can't be Little League trophies or Cub Scout badges.

I take several seconds longer than I should to fix his crooked bow tie; he never asks for my help, and I want to make this moment last as long as possible. After I've shifted it so it's perfectly straight, I rest my hands on my son's shoulders and we both stare at our reflections.

And I realize that he doesn't look anything like me.

"You know I love you, right, Benji?" I ask, noting his glaringly obvious caucasian features. No one would ever guess he was half Hispanic.

Ben nods, and leans his head backward to rest lightly against my stomach.

"I'm sorry I got upset this morning, buddy," I continue. "I'm just nervous."

_Why?_ he signs.

"Because there are gonna be some people there that I haven't seen in long time. Not since your mom... I don't want them to stare at us. Because of what... what it was."

"I know what AIDS is," my son tells me calmly, staring at his reflection, staring directly into his own eyes.

My stomach drops and I wonder how long he's known.

And if he's figured out what it means about my marriage.

"I know how you get it," he continues calmly. "And I know you and Mom didn't have it when you got married, because Mom kept all of our medical records in a folder. You both got tested before you got married."

My face grows red as he inches closer and closer to the truth.

I didn't want to get tested. I didn't want to know. But she wanted to know. She wanted to punish me.

We both thought I had it. For a while there, I'd been having sex with three different women a week. But Charity cured me; she showed me how to stop drinking, she forced me to stop taking the pills I wasn't supposed to be taking, she taught me that sex doesn't mean a thing to me unless the woman means a thing to me. And she gave me the greatest advice I've ever ignored: don't marry her. And now I wish to God I'd listened.

So I married her. I told her Charity had fixed me. Told her we could be together now. Told her I'd treat her right. And then I asked her. I asked her to do the one thing she'd sworn to me she'd never do.

I asked her to have kids.

She said no, of course. They'll be alcoholics, they'll be drug addicts, they'll be mute. They'll be like you and me, and that would be the worst thing in the world.

But I wanted those Little League trophies. I wanted those Cub Scout badges. I dreamed of tutus and dance recitals, basketballs and baseball games. Please, I begged. But the answer was always no.

So I forced her to give me what I wanted. For the first time in my life, I made a woman do something with me that she didn't want to do. The next morning she came home with two things: a morning-after pill and a brochure for free STD testing. She got a glass of water and left the kitchen. I shook with anger. Then she drove us to the free clinic and took the test. She was clear. I told her I wouldn't take it. And she gave me a look. I'd done something horrible to her, and now I had to try my best to make up for it. So I took the test. And I was clear.

I never understood why she made such a show about the morning-after pill since she obviously didn't take it. But today I know why. She'd been cheating on me; I've known that for awhile. And she knew that one day I'd find out, and I'd look at my son and wonder if he was really my son, or if she'd taken that pill.

"So that means it came from someone else," Ben continues. "And to get it from that someone else, you had to have sexual relations with them."

I turn my head away from the mirror, not wanting to see my son's face anymore.

"Did you kill Mom?" he asks me quietly.

He is a small boy; I lift him into my arms and place him on the edge of the king-sized bed I've slept in alone for so many months. I kneel down in front of him and take his silky head in my hands.

And I tell him what my mother always told me after I dared my brother to jump off a cliff; what she told me after he landed on the rocks and bled to death.

I tell him what I told my wife after we tested ourselves again; what I told her when we both tested positive; what I told her when she cried on this very same bed and asked if I had given it to her, or if she had given it to me.

"It's no one's fault," I tell this boy who seems to be turning into someone else's son with every passing minute. "It's no one's fault. It just happened." I cradle his head against my chest as he cries for his mother, who was only really my wife on paper. "It's no one's fault," I repeat, over and over again, my voice cracking, until I know that whenever Benjamin wonders if his father killed his mother or if his mother is slowly killing his father, even from the grave, this is the truth he will believe.

It's no one's fault.

**Luke Eve, Age 29, District 12**

"Are you girls ready?" I ask, poking my head into Hope's pink bedroom. I'm answered by two girlish screams and a frog-shaped Pillow Pet thrown at my chest.

"We're doing our hair!" Hope reprimands me.

"You can't see until we're finished!" Charity chastises.

"Okay, okay!" I throw my hands up in surrender and close the bedroom door gently.

Whistling as I jog down the stairs, I find Arthur pacing nervously back and forth in the kitchen.

"I can't do it," he tells me, tears streaking his face.

"What are you talking about?" I ask calmly, adjusting my tie in the mirror.

"Laciel wouldn't... Laciel wouldn't have wanted me to... to..."

"Laciel wanted two things when she died," I say sternly, placing my hands firmly on Arthur's shoulders. "She wanted you to move on and be happy, and she wanted Missy to be taken care of. You're doing both of those right now."

"But I don't think-"

"Why are you so worried?"

"She's eleven years younger than me," he whispers guiltily.

"Have you seen Haymitch? He's going on seventy, and he's walking around with girls who are barely eighteen. You're thirty and she's nineteen. So what? You walked her to school in the morning every day for ten years, Arthur. And then you left work early to walk her home again. You've always looked after her and made sure she was safe. And Missy's impetuous. She wants what she wants when she wants it. You'll never change her mind. It was _her_ decision, Arty. You didn't even ask, she _told_ you to marry her. She got that bossiness from Laciel." I finish talking, unsure where I'm even going with this.

"I don't want people to think I'm only marrying her to replace Laciel," Arthur whispers shamefully.

"It's been eleven years, Arty. You've got to stop thinking about her so much."

"I still have her ring."

"What?"

"The ring I made Laciel. Her engagement ring. I still have it."

"...Give it to me. You can't be carrying that thing around anymore. You're about to marry someone else."

He guiltily pulls the ring out of his pocket. Looking at it one last time, he places it gingerly in my palm. I stuff it into my own pocket, unsure what to do with it. I want to keep it; she was my sister. But I made peace with what happened years ago. I don't want this dragging me back to those dark thoughts when I could be thinking about my girls. Charity and Hope are my life now, not Laciel. I loved her and I buried her, and now I have to put that behind me.

"We're finished!" Hope sing-songs from the top of the stairs. And then my beautiful daughter drifts down the steps like a princess, her pale pink dress making her look older than her ten years. Charity follows close behind, looking like the adult version of Hope. It's always struck me how similar they look - I see them in each other, much like Arthur sees my dead sister in me.

"Look how pretty my dress is," Hope says, twirling in a circle to give us the full effect.

"You look beautiful, sweetie," I say, lifting her into my arms and kissing her cheek. She gives me a delicate kiss on my own cheek, careful not to mess her makeup, and wraps her arms around my neck, resting her head on my shoulder.

"I love you, Daddy," she tells me contently.

"I love you, too, baby."

I put her back on the tiled kitchen floor and reach for my wife; Charity kisses me gently on the lips before giving Arthur a comforting hug.

"I know today is hard for you," she tells him. "But you're going to be happy for the rest of your life. I promise."

Arthur smiles shyly; Charity, a counselor, knows how to comfort everyone.

"I'll meet you there," Arthur tells us. "Missy's waiting at the shop."

"See you there," I tell him. "Come on, ladies, let's get in the car." I wrap my arm around my wife's shoulder as we head outside, our beautiful daughter skipping ahead of us like a fairy.

**Arthur, Age 30, District 12**

I open the door to the shop, and there's my bride, dressed in an elaborate, expensive, beautiful white wedding dress and sitting on my dusty work table.

"Missy, it's filthy in here!" I immediately chastise, crossing the shop in three steps to wipe as much dust as I can off the dress.

"So?" she asks childishly, rolling her eyes and throwing herself into my arms. She wraps her arms around my neck and her legs around my waist. "You worry too much."

"Why did you want to meet here, anyway?" I ask, spitting pieces of her hair out of my mouth.

"Because I'm so proud of you," she tells me, her head cocked to the side. "My Arthur, the best blacksmith that ever lived."

I can't stop a smile from spreading across my face; I'm proud of myself, too.

"Can we go get married now?" I ask her happily.

"I guess," she says with a shrug and a smile.

**Rafael Rivera, Age 33, District 12**

District 12 has really changed.

No one's allowed to move between the Districts except for members of the Capitol, Peacekeepers, and Victors. They've really stepped up security since that Katpiss girl nearly overthrew the Capitol. She asked every Victor to join her; I said no. Luke didn't.

What I wanted to tell her was, I worked real fucking hard to get my Victor's house and my special privileges. I hated life in the Districts, sure, but now I'm a Victor and I want to stay one. I _deserve_ to stay one. And yeah, life sucks for some people in the Districts, but they don't deserve big houses and limitless food just for standing up and saying they're unhappy. I went into an arena and nearly died. I killed people. I deserve to be a Victor. These people don't deserve shit.

This wedding is a very special event for the Capitol: Luke's family raised Missy, so she's practically the sister of a Victor, and Arthur was engaged to Laciel, Luke's real sister and also a deceased tribute from Hunger Games past. Their marriage is a chance for the Capitol to show everyone that Victors are happy, and the Games bring people together.

I personally think the whole thing is a little kinky, what with the age difference and the strange family ties, but Weston said he would only go if I went, and Luke wanted Weston to go, so he begged me to go, and Weston begged me to go, because he didn't want to be forced to go alone, and if I didn't go then people would think I was a jerk and a party-pooper, and maybe even still grieving. And I don't want people to think that I'm grieving.

Because we didn't even love each other. So what's to grieve?

The wedding was a bore, as expected, but the reception is proving to be even worse, because I actually have to talk to people. We're in a grassy field, under a big tent that covers a fancy tiled floor. All of this cost a fortune, but it's on the Capitol's dime, so no one gives a damn. Except the Capitol, probably.

After the rebellion, the Capitol opened up part of the woods, moving the electric fence back further and fixing the damned thing so it actually electrocutes anyone fool enough to touch it. Their thinking was that it's better to leave some of the woods open and supervised, rather than have a completely wild and unsupervised temptation blocked only by a fence, practically begging people to grab a bow and go kill some animals. There will be no more skilled tributes from 12; there are so many Peacekeepers in the woods that if you so much as use 'damn' and 'Capitol' in the same sentence, you're likely to get you're tongue chopped off. No one would dare bring a weapon in there, unless they wanted to spontaneously combust.

But today the security is focused around the wedding, not the woods. I can't keep myself from glancing at the woods every hour or so, an uneasy feeling in the pit of my stomach.

"How many?"

I turn in my plastic chair and find Weston sitting beside me.

"Huh?" I ask innocently.

"How many beers?"

I glance at the one in my hand.

"Two," I tell him honestly.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Gotta keep an eye on Ben."

"So you're doing okay?"

"You mean, am I managing not to come home drunk and puking every day, stuffing pills down my throat and hiring hookers just to keep me company at night? Then, yeah. I'm doing okay."

"I didn't just mean with your addictions."

_Your addictions._ It's such a commonplace topic with Weston and generally the first thing he asks me about.

"I meant with Abe."

My chest tightens. He brought it up.

He fucking brought it up.

"I haven't said that name in six months," I tell him tightly. "She left, and now it's just me and Ben. There's nothing to deal with."

"For starters, you've got to stop saying she _left_. She's dead, Raf."

"So subtle, West. And dying is a form of leaving."

"You can't tell people she left. That implies an entirely different thing and you know it."

"I've been thinking about getting a divorce," I say suddenly.

"What?"

"A divorce. Irreconcilable differences, you know?"

"You're not married anymore. You can't get a divorce. Were you not listening to the ceremony five minutes ago? 'Till death to us part?'"

"I still might get one, though."

"A divorce?"

"A posthumous divorce."

"I think you have some shit you need to work out in your head."

"Okay."

We sit quietly for a moment, each lost in our own heads, until Ben comes up and stares at me with his unnaturally wide eyes from behind circular glasses. Like fucking Harry Potter. He just stands there, not saying anything, just staring. Judging.

"What do you want?" I finally ask. Weston's head tilts as he hears me snap at my son over absolutely nothing.

"May I have my Sherlock Holmes book, please?" Ben asks simply.

"No, no reading today. For this one day, just pretend to be normal. For me, okay?" Weston runs a hand through his hair in disbelief at what he's hearing. "Go get a balloon animal."

"Balloons aren't biodegradable. They're killing our planet."

"Then go watch the fucking magic show."

"Rafael," Weston murmurs, disgusted by the language I use with my eight-year-old.

"It's all fake," Ben continues calmly. "I can tell."

"Then dance with the other kids," I beg. "Go find a cute girl."

"Mom says dancing only leads to trouble."

Of course she would have said that. The first time I touched her was when we danced together.

"No more Mom's rules, remember?" I snap. "Go dance."

"I don't like to dance. It's a pointless waste of time."

"Then go get your fucking book from the car," I bark, tossing the keys so hard they hit him in the face. He flinches, holding his left cheek with one hand as he retrieves the keys from the ground with the other. I fume as I watch him walk off sadly.

"He talks about Abe like she's still alive," Weston says worriedly.

"What are you talking about?"

"He talks about her in the present tense. Mom _says,_ not said."

"So?"

"So don't you think he should stop talking about her like she's still alive?"

"I'm sorry, Weston, is your family perfect?"

He turns away. After a moment he turns back.

"Did you still sleep with her? Before she died?" he asks in a strange voice.

"Abe?"

"Abe."

"I slept _next _to her, not with her."

"She still slept in the same bed as you? Even after... even after what you did?"

"After I cheated? She cheated, too." The words are bitter and rough.

"And you two still slept in the same bed?"

"...She was afraid of the dark," I say quietly, all animosity gone.

"What?"

"My wife was afraid of the dark."

"_Abe_ was afraid of the dark? Abe wasn't afraid of anything. Not even you."

"She was afraid of the dark because of Daniel," I continue, voicing another name I never say out loud. "She was terrified of it. So she'd sleep with me at night. That was the only time she'd let me hold her."

I grow quiet as I remember wrapping my arms around her at night. She'd press her face against my chest and breathe in deeply, as if it comforted her to know for sure that it was me. For a while after she left, I'd press my face into her pillow and do the same thing, but it didn't work. Scent wasn't enough; I wanted her arms around me. I wanted her hands in mine. Her hands. Her beautiful hands.

God played a cruel trick on me by giving those hands to Ben. Because I don't like to touch Ben, no matter how much I want to hold those hands; he's an enigma, and I'm afraid of him.

"But you two hated each other," Weston says in surprise. "You couldn't even look at each other the last time I saw you."

"Just because you hate someone doesn't mean you want them to suffer," I say slowly. "She was afraid of the dark, Weston. I couldn't make her sleep alone at night. That would be mean."

Mean. That one word enveloped our entire marriage. We were both mean, it was in our nature. We were meanest to each other. But leaving her alone in the dark? That would have been too mean.

Everyone has their weird shit. Those strange things you do when no one else can see. And while we'd scream our heads off at each other all day, Abe always crept into my bed in the middle of the night and lay against me. Neither of us liked to sleep alone.

"But no sex?" Weston asks nonchalantly.

"Ever since we got married... every time we'd have sex, she'd cry," I admit. It's the first time I've said it out loud. "So eventually we just... stopped."

"Well, you didn't stop, you just did it with other people."

"Why would she cry?" I ask, ignoring his jab. "We'd had sex before. She never cried until we got married. And then she wouldn't stop."

"Tears of joy," Weston says flippantly, ready to change the subject to his own marriage.

"I think she didn't love me. Ever." Something deep inside my chest aches and I reach for another beer.

"Yesterday I asked Kallie if she wanted to have a date night. Go out to dinner, see a movie. She started yelling at me."

"Why?"

"She was screaming about how I just wanted to get her to have sex with me. I didn't. I just wanted to talk to her. I wanted her to really listen, though. Sit across from me at a table and be interested in what I have to say instead of pretending to listen while she's actually focusing on helping Anka with her homework. Then she was yelling that I don't care about Anka, that I wanted to leave the house and get away from her for a night. That part was true. And I didn't know what to say, so I started screaming back. I called her selfish. But that's not what I was mad about. I was mad because for so long I was the most important person in her world. And now Anka is, and I'm number two. Everything revolves around Anka. _Everything._ I feel... left out."

"Huh," I sigh, unsure how to respond.

"Kallie moved into the guest room," Weston says suddenly.

"Because of the fight?"

"No. She moved into the guest room three months ago. She says it's because that room is closer to Anka's room. She says Anka needs her. But I know she's lying."

"Because you pissed her off?"

"Because I don't love Anka."

The air around me suddenly feels too hot as Weston voices my greatest fear: that I don't love my child.

"I don't know what love is anymore," I say tightly, feeling increasingly uncomfortable.

"Sometimes I think I love her, but then I spend time with her. And then I hate her. I hate everything she does."

"You don't hate your daughter."

"I do. I really, truly wish... that she'd never been born. Every day of my life, Raf."

I watch my own son return with his heavy Sherlock Holmes book and call him over, desperate to prove to myself that I love him.

"Benji, how about having some fun? There's lots of stuff to do here. Just try one thing, and then I'll let you read, I promise."

"Nothing's fun, Dad." I can't tell if he means nothing here, or nothing ever.

"Go play with Anka," I tell him. "She's sitting over there by herself, I'm sure she'd like some company."

"No, thank you."

"Why not, Ben?" I ask in exasperation.

"Because there's something wrong with Anka."

Weston flinches as though he's been hit.

"No, there's not," I tell him angrily. "Just go talk to her."

"I tried. She screamed at me. There's something wrong with Anka."

Weston crushes a paper cup in his hand.

"Go read your book," I say quietly, shoving Ben away.

"There's something wrong with Anka," Weston murmurs.

"West, he's eight, he doesn't understand-"

"_Everyone_ understands. She's not normal! There's something wrong with her, Rafael! I can't control her - she does things and I can't stop her. _There's something wrong with Anka_."

"And Ben looks normal to you? Half the time he doesn't even talk, West. He uses that fucking sign language his goddamn mother taught him! He doesn't care about other people, he doesn't care if someone's crying or if they're hurt, he just wants to read his fucking Sherlock Holmes. He wants Abe, and no one else in the world matters to him. Especially not me. Ben hates me."

"I think you two have had enough to drink," Luke says, appearing suddenly in front of us. He gently takes the beers from our hands, even though we've barely had a sip each. "Kids go through phases," he continues. "They'll change. It'll get easier. Look at Hope."

Weston keeps his head down, as he won't be able to see anyway, but I look. I look and see her dancing with her beautiful mother, both of them dressed in matching pink outfits and smiling radiantly with uncontrolled joy. Lucky Luke. He always was Mr. Perfect.

Luke, completely in love with his family, wanders over to them, kissing his wife passionately before dancing joyfully with his thrilled daughter, who looks as though she's about to burst with joy.

"I love you _so much_, Daddy!" I hear her say as she twirls under his hand.

He lifts her up in his arms and says something in her ear, causing her to throw her head back in a giggling fit.

"It makes me sick," I say bitterly.

"I don't understand how his family can be so fucking perfect all the time," Weston mumbles.

"It makes me wish something bad would happen to them. Just once. Just _one_ thing. Something really bad."

"You don't mean that."

"It's not fair, West. _It's his turn_."

Weston says nothing, mulling my words over in his head.

That's when I notice my son talking to someone. It's a man, with his back turned away from me. For a split-second, my heart soars - he's talking to someone, and he's actually smiling. Then he points to me, and the man turns my way. My smile fades like a shooting star.

"Findley."

"Huh?" Weston asks lazily.

A memory dances through my head. I'm holding Ben in my arms; he's just been born. The nurse asks for his name. I turn to Abe, who signs seven letters to me. And I don't understand a single one of them. Because in all the years we were married, even as she taught it to our son right in front of me, even though it was the only way in the world she could communicate, I never bothered to learn sign language. I understood bits and pieces from sheer repetition, but I couldn't for the life of me figure out what she was saying.

"Benjamin," I told the nurse. "Benjamin Abraham Rivera." I turned to Abe with a smile on my face; that Abraham was for her. Abe. But she just stared daggers at me. It was the wrong name.

It's been eight years, and in the last six months I've had to learn more sign language than I ever thought I would. Because Abe taught it to Ben, who greatly preferred it over the spoken word. And I can interpret those letters now. I've been able to for a while. But I haven't let myself, because I'm afraid of what they'll spell out. Afraid of what they'll say about my wife, my marriage, and my son.

F.

I.

I stop myself there, not wanting to know. I look up and see Findley and Ben watching me; they both scrunch up their noses in order to reposition their glasses on their faces.

N.

D.

They stand there together, Ben's hand in Findley's, and I notice for the first time that Ben's hair is the exact shade of Findley's. A dark brown that's never matched my black hair.

L.

E.

Findley ruffles Ben's hair, and a radiant smile crosses my son's face. A smile he's never, ever shown to me.

Y.

My wife wanted to name our son Findley. Our son is the spitting image of Findley. Our son looks nothing like me.

"Abe was cheating on me with Findley," I blurt out.

Weston doesn't even move.

"No, she wasn't," he says lazily.

"How the hell do you know?"

"Is there a man with Findley?"

I glance around. There is, a tall man with blond hair and large muscles. I describe him to Weston.

"That's Findley's partner."

"What kind of business do they own?"

Weston sighs at my ignorance.

"Findley's gay," he says nonchalantly.

"No, he's not," I say slowly. "That doesn't make any sense."

"That's good news for you. It means he wasn't sleeping with your wife."

"He's touching my son."

"What?"

"He's got his hand on my son's shoulder, Weston."

"So?"

"He's fucking touching my son!" Before I can stop myself, I'm storming across the tent and ripping my son away from Findley.

"Rafael, how are you?" Findley asks brightly.

"Keep your fucking hands off my son," I bark at him. His smile fades away with uncertainty.

"I'm sorry?"

"I said keep your _fucking _hands _off _my son."

"Rafael, I know you never liked me, but Abe wanted me to check in on Benjamin for her after she-"

"_I'm _his dad! _Not _you! And I know what you are, Findley. I _know_."

"Know what?"

I jerk my head at the blond man behind Findley.

"You know that I'm gay?" Findley asks calmly.

The word makes me pull my son closer to me.

"You'd better not be putting ideas in my son's head," I say angrily.

"Ideas like what, Rafael? Tolerance? Kindness? Acceptance?"

"You know damn well what ideas I'm talking about!" My voice rises with my anger and I feel Ben shake beneath my hands.

"We're not trying to cause trouble," the man behind Findley says politely. "Abe asked us to-"

"Keep your hands off my son," I repeat. "Don't you ever touch him again."

"Rafael, Abe wanted-" Findley begins desperately, but I turn and drag my son away.

It isn't until I've handed him his Sherlock Holmes book and sat him down in a plastic chair far away from Findley that I even notice Ben is crying.

**Weston Shepp, Age 30, District 12**

It's dark by the time everyone begins to drift home. I haven't heard from Rafael or Luke in hours, and have no idea where Anka and Kallie are. I rise from my plastic chair and begin to maneuver my way around the tables I can't see.

"Have you seen Hope Eve?" a voice asks me.

"Excuse me?" I ask.

"Hope Eve. Luke's daughter? Have you seen her?"

"No, of course I haven't seen her, I can't see anything."

"...Are you drunk, sir?"

"No, I..." my voice trails off as I try to determine who I'm talking to.

"If you see Hope, tell her to come back to the tent. Her parents are very worried."

I hear the click-clack of the woman's heels as she marches of in determination.

"Yo," a voice calls behind me. I recognize it as Rafael's immediately.

"What's going on?" I ask him. "Hope's missing?"

"Yeah, whatever, she probably just wandered off. No one seems to care that Ben and Anka are missing, too."

"What?" I snap.

"I left Ben with Kallie two hours ago, West. Now I go up to get him and Charity's there crying, saying she can't find Hope, and that Kallie left 'cause she can't find Anka and doesn't know where the hell Ben is."

For a moment I'm reminded why I love my wife. She's strong; she's not a weeper like Charity. Charity feels too much, which is why she's got a job helping people through their problems. But my wife's used to hard times, and she won't drop a tear until Anka is in her arms again. She'll just keep pushing through.

And for the first time ever I find myself wishing that Abe were here. Abe would find those kids in ten minutes flat. Because Abe was a fighter; she just couldn't fight that last battle. No one can. That's when I remember that Abe was not the only one with AIDS, and I wonder if Rafael took his medication today.

"Have you seen her?" Luke's voice interrupts angrily.

"What?" I ask for what feels like the millionth time tonight.

"Have you seen my daughter?" His question feels like an accusation.

"I can't see," I mumble, pushing my way past Luke in an effort to find Kallie.

"You know what I mean, Weston! Do you know where she is?"

"Why would I know where she is?"

"I heard you two," he says, his voice acidic. _"I wish something bad would happen to them. It's his turn."  
_

"Our kids are missing, too," Rafael snaps, always hating to be interrogated.

"Then help me look!"

"I'll check the poor side of the District," Rafael offers. "I know where the seedy places are."

"No, I will," Luke says assertively. "You check the woods."

"I know those places better than you," Rafael says with measured words, reminding us both of his not-so-long-ago addiction to prescription drugs. Everyone knows that the poorest side of the poorest District is the best place to get unsavory things from unsavory people.

"That's why I want you to check the woods," Luke says, his words just as measured.

Rafael and I both catch his meaning. Luke doesn't want Rafael to interrupt his search for our children with a search for illegal drugs.

"I don't do that anymore," Rafael hisses threateningly, and for a moment I fear he might grab Luke by the collar and dare him to say what he really means.

"Check the woods, Rafael," Luke says authoritatively.

"I'll go with you, Luke," I offer. There is a pause before anyone speaks.

"No, you go with Rafael."

"Why? I won't be any help in the woods. There's too many trees and root branches I can't see. It'll be easier for me to help in the shops."

"...No, go with Rafael," Luke says again before hurrying off.

"He doesn't want you to slow him down," Raf says angrily.

"I'm not an idiot," I spit back.

Neither of us speaks again until we're deep into the dark woods, strange noises making Rafael jump every few moments. Far away, we can hear people screaming and racing around, everyone trying to find the missing Hope. No one cares about Anka and Ben. In fact, I'm not concerned; they probably wandered off, bored, and are just lost. But Hope is different. Hope is famous around here. She's pretty, she's charming, and she's widely-known.

If I were going to snatch a child, it would be Hope.

"You know why Luke doesn't want to search the woods himself, right?" Rafael asks slyly, in that way of his that tells me he's about to say something rude, inappropriate, gruesome, or just plain mean.

"Is he afraid of the dark?" I ask pointedly, hoping to anger Rafael by making fun of Abe.

"No," he answers, his voice bristled by my comment. "Luke doesn't want to search the woods because he knows that if we find her in here, we're not gonna find her alive."

The thought stops me in my tracks. Rafael could be right. No one would kill a girl and leave her in the District. The woods were a perfect killing place today, since every Peacekeeper in the District was at the wedding. I suddenly have the urge to head back and wait in the tent. If something did happen to Hope, I don't want to be the one to find her.

"Kinda creepy out here," Rafael says nervously.

"At least you can see," I retort, reaching blindly in front of me for trees to guide me.

"Listen, I didn't mean... you know, what I said earlier. About wanting something bad to happen and all."

"Yeah, whatever." I'm pretty sure he did mean it, but it doesn't matter to me. I wished it, too, I just had the good sense not to do it out loud.

"Freaking cold out here, too. It's getting too dark, I can't see a fucking thing." I hear a click as he turns on a flashlight. "Damn thing's low on battery." I hear him shake the flashlight in an effort to make the light brighter.

"So what's up with Ben?" I ask as an owl hoots eerily somewhere in front of us.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, why is he so... gloomy. And serious."

"That's just... Ben. He's always been that way. Different." Different. The word brings another man to Rafael's mind. "Findley. Findley took Ben!"

"Rafael, stop it!" I say angrily. "Abe asked Findley to look after Ben. That's it. There's nothing else to it. You cheated on your wife and she cheated on you, but Findley had nothing to do with it. Leave him out of this."

"That's where she got it," he continues to himself. "If he's gay, he must have AIDS. He must've been the one who gave it to her. And then she gave it to me."

"I swear to God, Raf! _You_ fucking sleep with every other woman you see! _You're_ the one who got it, and _you're _the one who gave it to Abe. Stop making Findley your scapegoat because you're not enough of a man to admit what you did to your wife."

My outburst silences him. Neither of us moves. And then an ear-piercing scream echoes through the woods.

"Holy shit," Rafael breathes. The scream grows in sound and becomes shrill. Blood-curdlingly shrill. Something in my bones grows stone-cold.

"Is that my daughter?" Luke shouts frantically as he thrashes through the woods toward us. "Is that my daughter?"

"No," I tell him calmly. "That's _my_ daughter. _That's my daughter. That's my daughter!"_

Everything in me jolts with pain. Anka. Anka screaming. Anka needing me. And I understand that I don't hate my daughter. I don't hate my daughter at all. I love her with all my heart, and I'd stab myself straight through the gut right now if it would stop her screaming; if it would take away her pain.

"Anka!" I scream, my voice hoarse. "_Anka_!"

Nobody around me moves. How can they just stand there? I try to run to her, but slip on the leaves and fall forward. I crawl, but it's not fast enough, and I can't see where I'm headed.

"Help me!" I scream at Luke and Rafael. "Please!"

Luke stumbles forward and I hear his footsteps start to run, but he's too slow, too careful. We all know Rafael is the runner. He ran from his burning allies in the Games, he ran from his drug addictions, he ran from his wife, he ran from his son. Abe was a fighter, and Rafael is a runner. And for the first time in his life, I'm asking him to run _to_ something; an act I don't know if he's capable of. An act _he _doesn't even know if he's capable of.

"Raf," I plead from the ground. "My _daughter_."

He doesn't even respond. He just takes off.

I hear him thrashing through the woods like a demon, and I pray he has the courage to find whatever it is that's causing my Anka to scream.

**Rafael Rivera, Age 33, District 12**

Run. It's the only thing I'm good at. Run.

My legs swing back and forth, my feet skillfully avoiding everything that threatens to slow me down. I run towards the screaming, faster and faster and faster until I'm there and that's when I give up. Because running is the only thing I'm good at. Not finding.

And especially not finding this.

"Ben, what... what did you do?" I ask, my voice shaking.

My son stands over Hope's unmoving body, her blood in his hands. Anka stands next to him, a bloodied handprint on her shoulder where Ben evidently put his hand on her.

"Weston..." I moan. "Luke... Someone. Someone, please. Someone help!"

In the distance, I hear Luke crashing through the woods, desperately searching for his daughter. With another glance at Hope I find her throat slit, her pretty pink dress lifted up to her chest, her underwear at her ankles, just above her new black shoes, now coated in mud and stained with blood.

"Luke, no!" I shout. "Stay there!"

He ignores me, and I hear his footsteps quicken through the woods. As his figure appears in the distance, I slam my full weight into him and hold him back.

"No, Luke!" I scream desperately. "You don't want to see! Don't fight me!"

He slams my head against the nearest tree, and a burning sensation rips through my eye.

"Please!" I beg. "Don't fight me, Luke!"

"What did you do to her?" he screams at me. "What did you do to my daughter?"

On an average day, I could easily overpower Luke. He's shorter and weaker. But today I can't beat him, because he's full of rage. He shoves me backward and I land painfully on the ground, where he kicks me in the ribs for good measure. I howl in pain, clutching my stomach. But it's nothing compared to the pain I hear in Luke's scream.

I drag myself from the leaves and limp toward the bloody scene before me. Luke holds Hope to his chest, sobbing into her fine golden hair. My son stands immobile, staring at Luke as he holds his bloodied hands up for all to see. Anka is still standing next to Ben, hugging herself as she screams.

"Help!" I scream into the empty woods. "_Help!"_

Not knowing what else to do, I wrap my arms around Anka and pull her into a tight hug, as I once saw Weston do.

"Anka, It's Uncle Raf, you remember? You're okay. You're okay. Please stop screaming. Please." I lift her into my arms and rub her back as the screaming subsides. "Ben." He doesn't seem to hear me. "Ben! Benjamin!" He turns his head slowly, as though in a trance. "Ben, come with me."

I carry Anka back through the woods, Ben stumbling behind me, as Peacekeepers flood around Luke and his dead daughter. Finally, I find Weston standing resolutely in the woods, tears trailing down his face, waiting.

"Who died?" he asks me. "Which one? Tell me, Raf."

I hand Anka over to her father.

"Dada!" she exclaims, safety bringing a round of tears to her eyes. Weston cries even harder than his daughter as he holds her, rocking her back and forth.

"Anka," he cries. "My Anka."

I turn to my own son, expecting to feel the same relief and flood of love, but instead I feel fear. My son does not cry. He simply watches me.

"Ben," I say, my voice cracking. "Oh, God, Ben, what did you do?"

"Where's Hope?" Weston asks me suddenly.

"Hope is dead," Ben says simply.


	4. Numb is My Heart

**I hope everyone stays safe this week - I've personally never experienced a hurricane, so I was mistakenly expecting a wave of water to come crashing over the entire state, but apparently that's not what's going to happen. When I got up this morning, no one was in the dorm (I went crazy checking the elevators, hallways, bathrooms, stairways...) so I assumed the only logical thing - the zombies had finally come. I barricaded my room (my roommate was slightly less than thrilled), but it turns out everyone was just watching the news in the lounge... Anyways, I've officially turned my dorm room into a bunker (complete with an empty bucket to pee in - my roommate was appalled, but I assured her she would be thanking me later), so I'm all prepared, and I hope you are too!**

**On a more relevant note, I've decided to split each chapter into two parts - one part the current Games, and the other part the ten-year skip. As the story progresses, it'll become more evident how the two stories are intertwined, and how what happened during the current Games influenced what happened ten years later. **

**The lyrics I've incorporated in Ben's POV are from "I Want a Mom" by Cyndi Lauper, you may recognize it from Rugrats in Paris, haha. That scene has always killed me, and I find the song quite sad... **

* * *

**Honora, 17, District 4**

The buzzer sounds.

Demetri, Alexei, Mathias, Patrick and Natia take off like shots. I lag behind, jogging slowly across the manicured grass of the football field, wary that a trap may be lying in wait somewhere ahead. I glance behind me and watch as the rest of the tributes nervously begin to run across the field behind me. There are only twenty-three flags, which means the last one to the end of the field will be more than a rotten egg.

They'll be dead.

Suddenly Patrick spins around, pausing in the middle of the field. With a sick grin, his eyes light on all of the children running at him. And a new game begins: monster in the middle.

I slow down and allow Shiloh, Renton, Tani and Autumn to pass me. Unsure why Patrick has stopped running, they attempt to pass him. As they do so, Renton and Shiloh on Patrick's right and Tani and Autumn on his left, Patrick reaches out and grabs for someone. A scream, several shouts, and a groan poison the air as the four try to dodge Patrick, tumbling over each other and shoving their way through. Shiloh makes it out first, followed by Renton and Tani.

Patrick grabs Autumn around the waist, pulling her back toward him. A greedy smile on his face, he covers her mouth and nose with his hands; she kicks and struggles until her tiny body goes limp in his arms.

As Patrick is distracted with his first kill, I race by him. Mike and Annalee take advantage of Patrick's momentary distraction as well, and quickly pass me by as I slow down to watch who Patrick snatches next.

Killing Autumn was a message. Not only was she a small girl, she was also his assigned ally. By killing her, Patrick was letting everyone know that he worked alone, and was willing to kill absolutely anyone who crossed him, no matter who they were.

Thinking of Autumn and Patrick makes me remember my own assigned ally, Cal. I'm one of the deadliest tributes in the arena; the thought of me working with Cal is laughable. And yet, at the same time, he's not all that bad. I mean, if he treats a female _doll_ with adoration, respect, and unbelievable kindness, imagine how he would treat an _actual _female. He certainly won't suffocate me with his bare hands. He'll never try anything inappropriate with me. And I sincerely doubt he'll even _consider_ stabbing me in the back or double-crossing me.

All of these thoughts cross my mind as I watch Cal stumble across the field, Lola still in his arms. He walks slowly, glancing around him nervously as he goes. He looks near tears as he whispers something to Lola and trips on his own feet.

For some reason, we were thrown together. I can't leave him now.

**Tani, 18, District 1**

I barely escaped Patrick. His hands brushed against my shoulder as he snatched Autumn.

His touch leaves me shaking, which slows me down as I desperately try to run across the field. I'm so focused on increasing my speed that I don't notice the body on the ground until I trip over it. Demetri cries out as my feet slam into his ribcage and I fall over him. I tumble to the ground and roll away, quickly dragging my body up again. I don't trust Demetri. He's curled up on the ground, clutching his wrist and moaning.

"It's broken," he tells me desperately, his eyes begging for help.

Still shaking, I back away from him. Half of me screams to get away before he kills me; the other half only sees a hurt young boy on the ground who needs my help.

My thoughts are interrupted by a maniacal cackle as Patrick comes rushing at Demetri. Demetri screams, frantically dragging himself backward, but it's too late. Patrick pounces on him like an animal, grabbing Demetri's ear in his mouth and mangling it with his teeth. I gasp, covering my mouth with my hands, as I watch and listen to Demetri's shrieks.

Then I turn and run.

**Alice, 12, District 3**

Remi is gone. And I think I'm about to join him, wherever he is.

I'm slower than the other tributes. I'm weaker. I'll never make it across the field.

"Run!" Saren shouts at me, grabbing my hand.

I'm jerked forward unexpectedly as Saren pulls me along with her. Several feet away, I watch as Honora shoves Cal to the ground and rips Lola from his arms. I'm thinking that this is mean when Honora suddenly takes off across the football field, Lola clenched tightly in her hands. Cal immediately charges after her, screaming for Lola all the way, and I realize that this was Honora's way of saving Cal's life. Now he'll make it to the other side.

"It's too far!" I tell Saren. "I can't make it!"

"Yes, you can!" she tells me, pulling harder at my hand.

"No, she can't," Irene says nonchalantly as she jogs past us.

I sniffle and try to hold in the tears as my heart races. Dread and terror sit heavily on my chest.

I'm going to die.

**Luke, 19, District 12 Mentor**

Rollo scoots his chubby frame across the football field, panting heavily. Rafael's hands are pressed against the screen, his face mere inches from it, as if this will somehow help Rollo run faster.

Keir charges over the grass, trying twice as hard as everyone else and getting half as far. She keeps getting distracted by the other tributes and tripping. Weston sits in his chair, his head to the ground and his hands pressed firmly over his ears, pressing his headset as deep into his ear canal as he possibly can to allow his hearing to make up for his lost sight.

I've already lost Autumn. I barely blinked when she was suffocated by Patrick; she was an eternally unpleasant child. Puck is only slightly better, but he's definitely a survivor. He's got a bright orange flag in his hand, so now it all comes down to whether he can hold onto it or if someone will manage to snatch it from him.

The first twenty minutes or so are always the worst; silence hovers over the Mentors like death. No one speaks until things have settled down, until we all know whether or not we're going to have a tribute to watch over this year.

**Keir, 16, District 6**

All around me I hear screaming. I see bodies, broken and lifeless. I feel blood seeping through my pant leg, without being entirely sure how it's gotten there. In my hand is an orange flag; I've very little idea what it's for, and yet I know that I must never let go; it feels like the only thing anchoring me to this world.

I blink once. Twice. My mind is blank, uncomprehending. I see everything. I feel nothing.

Numb is my heart.

As I stare at the chaos around me, it slowly dissolves into nothingness. All around me there is white. Just white. Heaven? Unlikely. Limbo, perhaps. And then, just as I'm beginning to fear I've disappeared completely, a blinding flash forces my eyes shut. When I risk opening them again, I find myself sitting in a car.

The momentary safety causes my emotions to come flooding through: pain, fear, confusion, anger. But most of all need. Need to escape. Need to go home. Need my mommy.

I try to banish this thought from my mind as quickly as it came, but once the boogeyman is out, there's no shoving him back under the bed. You never told me you loved me, Mom. Why didn't you tell me you loved me?

"Are there air bags in here? When was the last time this car had a safety inspection!" A frantic voice, clearly belonging to Rollo, crackles in my ear and I realize I'm wearing a headset. Adjusting the small mike in front of my mouth, I test it out.

"Someone cut the brakes!" I shout dramatically. "We're on a collision course with death!"

_"There's no seatbelt!"_ Rollo wails back into the mike. _"Call 911!" _

After a moment he hears my laughter.

"Keir? Keir, is that you? This is no time for tomfoolery!"

The word _tomfoolery_ only makes me laugh harder.

And then my momentary joy is stopped cold by a loud beep. Glancing out the window I see a large red light. A second beep turns the red light off and a yellow light on.

Oh, shit.

By the time the green light flashes on, Rollo is in full-out panic mode. As other cars race ahead of us, I manage to realize that Rollo is in the driver's seat and I'm behind him, facing the back. We're separated by a black wall, the headsets our only means of communication.

"Rollo, start the car!" I shout, realizing we're losing this race, whatever it's for. "Is there a key?"

"There's no seatbelt!"

"A _key_, Rollo! Is there a key?"

"There is _no_ seatbelt!"

"Put the car in gear!"

"There IS. NO. SEAT-"

"FUCK!" I scream as loudly as I can. "FUCK, FUCK, FUCK THE SEATBELT, ROLLO! _Put_ the _car_ in _gear_!"

My sudden outburst and use of the forbidden F-word frightens him into submission, as I'd hoped it would. Slowly, I hear a key turn. We begin to move.

"Wrong way!" I shout. "You're going in reverse!"

After a full thirty seconds of confusion, Rollo manages to get the car moving forward at an achingly slow pace.

"Speed up!"

"We're not on a racetrack," Rollo responds calmly. "We're in a city, and cities have speed limits."

Gazing out the window I realize that we are indeed in a city. Tall buildings crowd around us, leaving a clear path through which we need to drive.

"If you don't speed up, we'll die!" I scream through the headset.

"If you can't use your inside voice, I'm going to have to ask you to step out of the car."

"Rollo!"

"I'll come back there, Keir, don't think I won't!"

"I dare you to! _Triple-dog_, motherfucker!"

"KEIR!"

My heart races as we fall pathetically behind the other racers. In front of me, in place of a steering wheel, is a black touch-screen. One side shows the racing path, with twelve dots moving slowly up it. When I touch the dot farthest behind the others, the other side of the screen shows me a red racing car with black stripes, rotating pictures of both Rollo and I, and the speed we're currently moving at.

15 mph.

Above my head and directly above the window is a row of buttons, each labeled with a different picture. Tempted by the button displaying an explosion, I instead press one that shows flames extending out of a tube. Immediately, the car speeds up to 60, 70, 80 miles per hour and counting, going up by the second.

Rollo screams bloody-murder, his voice so shrill I have to mute my headset. Sitting in silence for the first time in hours, a cleansing calm washes over me and I'm finally able to think. Rollo is my assigned partner. There are twelve dots on the screen. That must mean all the other tributes are stuck in cars with their own assigned partners. Interesting.

Glancing at the screen, I see that we're only about a sixth of the way through the race. The track twists and turns, eventually ending in a big orange flag. There are various pathways extending out of the main track, tempting shortcuts that will either save a hell of a lot of time or kill you for trying to cheat. Our tiny dot progresses forward at a nice speed, easily catching up to the others; I tap a dot directly in front of ours.

A black motorcycle, complete with a sidecar and flame designs, appears on the opposite screen. Alexei and Angus's figures rotate next to the motorcycle. A whooshing noise makes me look up at the window and see the motorcycle and sidecar drift behind us, not quite fast enough to keep up. Alexei, intimidating in a black motorcycle helmet with the same flame design as the vehicle, revs the motorcycle by twisting the handles with his gloved hands. The black motorcycle gloves are a nice touch, and I'm immediately jealous.

I glance around the car, trying to find my own neat gear, but discover nothing. What the hell? That's not fair. I glance down at my body and find myself in a red and black racing jumpsuit. Uncomfortable, but it slightly enhances my racer appearance.

In front of me (or I suppose behind the car, since I'm facing backward), Angus, his stupid red cape flying behind him, a red scarf around his neck and a pair of ridiculously large goggles on his face, points at our car and shouts something to Alexei. Without so much as nodding, Alexei drives faster, angling the motorcycle and sidecar to the left of my own car. I bang on my window and give Alexei the finger, but with the black glass of his helmet covering his eyes and the helmet itself covering the rest of his face, it's impossible to tell if he even notices my antics, or if he's simply ignoring me.

This failed communication reminds me that my headset is still on mute; quickly turning the volume back up allows me to hear Rollo begging the Gamemakers to kill me in order to save him.

"Rollo!" I snap. "I'm still here!"

"You're being a backseat driver!" he scolds. "It's dangerous and-"

He cuts himself off as we screech to a hard stop. I'm propelled forward, slamming my forehead violently against the window.

"Shit! Did we almost crash?" I ask Rollo as I rub my head painfully.

"No. Stop sign. Should we turn left or right?"

"DON'T STOP AT THE SIGNS!" I scream, holding my aching head and hoping there's no permanent damage. A quick glance at the screen in front of me answers Rollo's question. "Turn right. _Quickly_."

A blinking noise begins and I realize Rollo's put on our turning signal. Ever so slowly, we begin to creep around the corner. I push the flame button again and prepare for takeoff, but nothing happens. As we fall further and further behind the others, I desperately push the button over and over again, but it's clear that each button will only work once. Furiously looking over the other buttons, I find one with two arrows facing opposite directions. What does that mean? Switch? I decide to press it and find out.

Immediately, the wall separating me from Rollo spins 180 degrees, leaving me in the driver's seat and Rollo in the back.

"Yes!" I shout happily, grabbing the steering wheel. "Pedal to the metal, asshole!"

"What's going on? Are you watching for squirrels? Keir!"

Ignoring Rollo, I watch gleefully as the tiny needle on the dashboard reaches 100, 110, 120... I'm so busy watching the speed that I forget to watch where I'm going. There's a thump as I hit something.

"I think that was a person!" Rollo shrieks.

"It's okay," I assure him, unconcerned. "I just nudged him. He'll be fine."

**Shiloh, 15, District 9**

I'm in a Go Kart with Alice, going at dangerous speeds in a ridiculously small vehicle. To make matters worse, I've got the steering wheel and she's got the pedals.

"Push the gas harder," I tell her.

She slams her foot down on the brakes instead.

"I'm sorry!" she cries. "I forgot which one was which!"

"It's okay, just push the other one." I ignore her sniffling and wait patiently for her to push the gas. She does, slowly. "Faster, Alice." I say it indifferently, a simple command, but she takes it as criticism and begins to cry.

"I'm sorry," she sobs.

"You're fine, just push the gas," I tell her calmly without turning to look at her. I focus on the road in front of me as I manage to slide past Puck and Mike's golf cart. The Gamemakers seem to have given each assigned pair a different type of vehicle, which makes it much easier to remember who's in what vehicle.

"Faster," I say again. "Push the pedal all the way down."

"I can't!" Alice cries. "It's too fast! I wanna get out!"

"You can't get out, Alice," I tell her calmly. "Just push the pedal."

"I wanna slow down! We're gonna crash!"

Glancing over at her quickly I see she's sobbing uncontrollably, her foot completely off the pedal. We slow down to a crawl.

For the first time I realize she's not wearing a helmet. I quickly take mine off and place it firmly on her tiny head.

"Okay?" I ask her. "Now you're safe."

She nods, the helmet bobbing up and down precariously, clearly too big for her. The other cars are far ahead of us by now, but I don't particularly care. Slow and steady wins the race.

"How about we explore?" I ask Alice. She nods again and finally places her foot back on the pedal. I turn the Go Kart down a thin alleyway and search for something. I don't know what it is exactly that I'm looking for.

I just know it's here.

"Danger!" Alice screams suddenly. "It says danger!"

Glancing around, unconcerned, I find what she's pointing at. An old, rusted sign proclaiming 'Danger - High Voltage.'

This is it. This must be what I was looking for. I cruise the Go Kart to a stop.

"Let's go in," I say nonchalantly, approaching the fence behind the danger sign.

"We're not supposed to," Alice says anxiously, keeping her helmet on as she follows me to the fence.

"We don't have to if you don't want to," I say with a shrug. I don't really care either way.

Alice stares up at my face through her helmet, trying to gauge my intelligence. She has no way of knowing if I want to climb the fence because I'm smart enough to think it will lead somewhere, or because I'm stupid enough to want to try electrocuting myself.

"You first," she finally says timidly.

I give her a smile and a one-fingered salute before raising my hand and holding it dangerously close to the fence. High voltage? I've always wondered what that felt like. Gathering all my courage, I throw my hand against the fence and clasp the rusted metal firmly with my fingers.

Nothing.

High voltage, my ass.

"It's safe," I tell Alice before placing a foot in the fence and hauling myself up.

**Weston, 20, District 6 Mentor**

"What the hell's he doing?" Rafael asks curiously.

"Who?" I ask just as curiously.

"Shiloh. The little fucker actually got _out_ of his car and climbed over a high voltage fence. Now he's walking around a junkyard."

"Maybe he knows something you don't."

"Impossible."

"There's a monitor right in front of you," Luke says testily. "With a blinking orange flag ten feet to the left of Shiloh. What the hell are you confused about?"

Rafael is silent for a moment, shocked by Luke's rudeness. I know Rafael well enough to understand that the only time he actually thinks is when he's silent. And it's never good to let Rafael think.

"I think you're-" Raf begins, but I cut him off quickly before he says something he can't take back.

"Who's hungry?" I ask loudly. No one responds. I act as though I don't notice. "Raf, go get us some snacks."

"I'm not your bitch," Raf snaps. "Get your own food."

"The hot Avox is on kitchen duty today," I lie. "But if you don't want to sexually harass her, I guess I can just go get the food myself..."

"...I totally forgot I have to go to the bathroom," Rafael says slowly. "I guess if I'm gonna be over by the kitchen anyways I might as well get the snacks. I mean, that'd be the courteous thing to do, so..."

He's out of the room before he can even finish his own sentence.

"Don't give me another one of your little therapy sessions," Luke immediately snaps at me. "You think I'm so stupid I don't know that's what you're doing every time you make Rafael leave?"

"Woah," I respond calmly, putting my hands up in surrender. "I'm just sick of Raf. He doesn't get on your nerves sometimes?"

Luke doesn't answer.

"Did Shiloh find the flag?" I ask nonchalantly.

"Yeah," Luke answers warily. "He's passing it through the fence to Alice."

"What else is happening?"

"Alexei and Angus finished the race first. They got a gold backpack. Patrick was second. He got a silver backpack. And Puck and Mike finished third, 'cause Mike kept giving Puck these weird directions she got from calculating random shit. They got a bronze backpack. Everyone else who finished just got an orange flag."

"Did anyone _not_ finish?"

"Well, Shiloh and Alice, but they got their flag from the junkyard. Keir and Rollo crashed into a grocery store, so they didn't finish, but they found a flag in the cash register. Revlin and Demetri are headed toward the finish line, but... Oh, shit..."

"What?"

**Micaela "Mike," 16, District 6**

I analyzed the trajectory of Revlin and Demetri's car in relation to Honora and Cal's, and I knew it was going to happen thirty seconds before everyone else watched the horrible collision.

Revlin and Demetri were on a tandem bicycle, the worst mode of transportation the Gamemakers could have given them. Honora and Cal, on the other hand, had an electric green Hummer. Taking into account the speed of the Hummer, the angle of the tandem bicycle, the distance from the bike seat to the ground and the amount of blood flowing from Demetri's mangled ear, courtesy of Patrick, I calculated a rough estimate of how long he would live once he hit the pavement. You probably won't understand my mathematical solution, but I can give it to you in layman's terms.

Not long.

"Honora, no!" Cal screams from the passenger seat, clutching Lola tightly in his arms. "You're scaring Lola!"

It's been obvious to me from the beginning that Lola feels everything Cal feels. This is because Lola is an inanimate object, a physical manifestation of Cal's inabilities. Anything he can't do, Lola can't do. So now he doesn't have to say he's afraid: he can say Lola is afraid. She is a crutch, if you will, albeit a highly unconventional and dangerously unhealthy one.

Honora, a look of pure determination and glee on her face, ignores Cal's cries and rams her Hummer directly into the fragile tandem bicycle. Demetri's half takes the brunt of the damage, though Revlin does end up in a tangled mess on the pavement.

After Demetri has been thrown to the pavement, Honora takes it one step further and manages to roll one of the Hummer's tires directly over his body.

I could tell you the number of decibels in his scream. I could tell you the rate at which the sound of his scream travels. But nothing in my brain is capable of comprehending the strange, inhuman pain entangled in Demetri's scream. After exactly 2.6 minutes, his scream diminishes to a strange gurgle; 4.8 minutes after that, Demetri quiets down permanently. His cannon fires, and that's that.

Through all this time, Revlin has not moved an inch. Neither has anyone else. We are all too busy waiting to be transported to the next level to even bother trying to make weapons from whatever debris we can pull of the street in order to murder each other. This level was fun, actually, until Honora decided to change the game from a race to a battle.

"Why is everyone standing around?" a voice asks warily. Everyone turns to see Rollo and Keir staring at us in confusion and fear.

Everyone suddenly distances themselves from one another. Most run off, finding various places to hide with their flags until they're safely transported to the next level. Honora is yelling at Cal in the Hummer as he sobs, claiming Lola nearly had a heart attack. I place my self strategically in an alleyway where I'm able to watch without being seen.

"Is that... who is that?" Keir asks Rollo as she stares at Demetri's mangled body, unidentifiable at this point. "It's not... that's not Revlin... right?"

"Don't touch it!" Rollo snaps as Keir turns the body over. "Wash your hands!"

"I think it's... Demetri?" Keir says slowly. "If it was Revlin, there'd be glasses."

"Why does it matter if it's Revlin?" Rollo asks, busy double-knotting his shoelaces.

"It doesn't..." Keir tells him, preoccupied. "He was just nice to me one time, that's all." She follows the trail of destruction to the second body.

She sees the glasses lying on the pavement, perfectly intact.

"Revlin!" she barks at the motionless body. "Get up or you won't make it to the next level!"

"Don't touch me," he whimpers as she shakes his body. "It hurts."

I notice his arm is bent in a very strange way. Keir doesn't even blink, evidently used to broken bones.

"You broke your arm, stupid," she tells him angrily, as though it's his fault. "Seriously, though, get up. They won't let you go to the next level unless you're holding a flag. You've gotta get one. Me and Rollo found ours in a grocery store, you can probably find another one around here."

"Go away," Revlin moans, dragging himself into a sitting position and holding his left arm tenderly. Pain makes people grumpy, I've noticed.

"You have to get a flag!" Keir persists.

"Get away from me!" Revlin shouts at her. Then he bends his head in pain and groans.

"Fine, Mr. Grumpy Pants," Keir sighs in agitation. "You can share our flag."

"Just don't let him touch the flag," Rollo whines. "You don't know where he's been."

Keir holds the flag in her right hand and Rollo grabs part of it in his left hand. Then, even as Revlin angrily cries out in pain, Keir puts her hand on his shoulder. The moment they are all connected to the flag, the moment every living tribute is somehow connected to a flag, a wave of complete and utter silence crashes over the arena.

And then the beautiful white.

* * *

**Rafael, 33, In District 12**

Weston carries Anka tightly in his arms; I hold Ben's wrist with my right hand and Weston's elbow with my left, leading my blind friend out of the dark woods and back to the festive wedding reception.

A disco light flashes a rainbow of colors at me; loud music pounds against my ears; dancing couples slam into my body. It all stops when Charity screams.

The entire wedding party turns to see a bedraggled Luke emerge from the woods, covered in his daughter's blood and gazing past us with a thousand-yard stare. More screams follow as they see my son, covered in blood, holding my hand. They follow this hand to my body, muddy and covered in wet leaves. Next to me they see Weston, equally muddy, holding his autistic daughter, a bloody handprint on the shoulder of her shirt.

"Luke!" Charity cries, running to her husband. Her touch brings him back, and he immediately places his hands on her shoulders, leaning forward so that their foreheads are touching. The only time Abe and I were ever that close was if we were having sex, or if she was beating me.

A distant memory flashes through my mind: me on the floor, crying and begging for her to stop, Abe straddling my body and slamming her fist into my eye. When Luke asked, I told him I got the black eye practicing baseball with Ben. Luke, who never learned until tonight about the darkness inside every human heart, believed me.

But Weston knew.

"No!" Charity cries, and I take it that Luke's told her. "_No!"_

She collapses to the ground, a loud moan escaping her throat, and Luke kneels down next to her, wrapping her fragile body up in his arms, and I wonder why I never held Abe that way. That's what I should have done the moment she told me she had HIV. I should have held her and never let her go as she stood there crying in the kitchen. That certainly would have been better than what I did.

_"You whore!" I shouted. "Who have you been fucking? WHO? Tell me! Is it Findley?"_

_She shook her head silently, tears streaming down her face. _

_"Tell me!" I screamed, grabbing a dish from the sink and throwing it against the wall. Then my anger turned to jealousy and hurt. "You've been cheating on me?" I asked, tears running down my own face now. "Why would you cheat on me? Do you not... do you not love me anymore?"_

_'I love you so much,' Abe signed. _

_"You've got a funny way of showing it," I cried. _

_Abe reached for me and held me in her arms. I rested my head on her shoulder and we both cried together as she ran her hand soothingly through my hair. She comforted me; she held me; she protected me. It was never the other way around. Why was that?_

_It might be important to mention that Ben was lying under the kitchen table this entire time, his tears staining the Color-By-Number Batman picture he was working on. _

_It wasn't until a week later that I admitted I'd been cheating, too. _

My heart feels empty and lost, completely alone in a scary world. Watching Luke and Charity cry together makes me miss my wife. The word itself has always comforted me, even after the worst fights; I have a wife, I have someone to come home to, I have someone who loves me, I have someone to hold me when I cry. Now that's all gone. Evaporated like a ghost. I need to have Abe's arms around me, but all I have left is Ben.

And now they're going to try to take him away, too.

"He's covered in her blood!" a woman shrieks, pointing at my son.

The entire wedding party follows suit, pointing and screaming accusations at my eight-year-old boy. I pull Ben close to me, my hands protectively on his shoulders as Anka begins to wail and Weston starts to cry and Luke is pointing at Ben and Charity is screaming at the sky and Kallie is grabbing my hand. It all seems to happen in slow-motion, the sound warbled.

"Let us through!" Kallie demands, forcing a path through the terrified and confused wedding-goers. She holds my hand firmly in hers, and this simple act of kindness keeps me grounded at a time when I'm tempted to simply ditch my son and run.

Kallie drags Weston and I, each with our own kid, through the District until we reach the Victor's Houses. A single guard stands in front of the gated community, but he recognizes us immediately and rushes to give us a key. The house it opens is directly across from Luke's own dark, empty house. Kallie flings the door open, tossing the key onto a glass side-table, and snaps the kitchen lights on. I turn to Weston and find his face buried in Anka's dark hair, his body gripped by sobs as he realizes that he almost lost his daughter tonight. Anka herself is asleep in her father's arms, her head resting contentedly on his shoulder.

My own son is shaking, his wrist red from being held too tightly by my own hand. What a sad pair we make.

"Come here, Ben," Kallie says authoritatively, taking my son by the shoulder and guiding him to the bathroom. I follow behind, feeling useless. I watch as she takes the bloody clothes off of his body, comforting him with soothing words as she does so, and draws a bath. She scrubs the blood and dirt from his body as I take his bloody clothes in my hands and stare at them. What did he do?

Do I want to know?

"I'll wash those," Kallie tells me as she wraps a towel tightly around Ben. She ruffles his hair and kisses his head. "All clean," she tells him with a bright smile on her face.

And my son offers her a hesitant smile in return. One he still refuses to give to me.

"Can you find him some new clothes?" Kallie asks me, taking the bloody bundle from my hands. I nod silently, taking my son by the hand and leading him to the stairway. I pause on the first step to stare into the kitchen and watch Kallie take Anka from Weston's hand and lay her sleeping body gently down on the couch before turning around and hugging Weston.

"You're a good father," she tells him softly. They stay like that, holding each other close, until my heart grows too heavy to watch anymore and I lead my son up the stairs.

There are eight bedrooms up here, and I decide to choose the blue one, with little sailboats painted across the top of the walls. Ben stands in the center of the room, dripping water on the perfect blue carpeting, as I paw through the fully stocked dresser. I find some underwear and pajama pants in his size and toss them onto the bed. He quietly pulls them on as I find a red t-shirt in the middle drawer.

"Come here, Benji," I say gently. "Put your hands in the air." He follows my instructions and I pull the shirt over his head and onto his skinny body. Then I take the towel and use it to scrub his hair partially dry.

He stares down at the t-shirt.

"Red," I tell him. "You know why?"

"Mom," he answers simply, and the word breaks my heart.

"Mom's fighting color," I say, my voice breaking. "Remember her boxing tape? Always red. And her boxing robe, and her gloves. Red was her warning that if you pushed her, she was gonna push you back. Remember?"

He nods. He'll never forget.

"Some people are gonna try to push us, Benji. But we have to be strong like Mom, and we can't be afraid to push back. Okay?"

He stares solemnly into my face and nods.

"Bedtime," I tell him, forcing fake cheer into my voice. I pull back the covers and he climbs into the twin bed. I tuck him in and step back, staring at him for a moment, this strange son of mine.

"I miss Mom," he says suddenly, fat tears forming in his wide eyes.

I know what I'm supposed to do. I know that I need to hug him and console him, promise him Abe is watching over us. But the tears are beginning to form in my own eyes, and the last thing I want is for my son to see me cry. So I simply turn away.

"Go to sleep, Ben," I tell him, flicking the lights off and closing the door behind me.

The moment the door clicks shut, I collapse against it, sliding down to the floor. My head falls into my hands and I work hard to keep my crying silent. I feel a hand on my shoulder and look up to find Weston. Embarrassed, I wipe my face and force myself to stand before him.

"He was covered in blood," Weston begins. "He was standing over Hope's body. He'd put a hand on Anka's shoulder."

"I know," I respond hoarsely.

"Did he do it?"

"What?"

"Do you believe Ben raped and murdered Hope?"

"...No," I lie.

"Do you believe he was trying to hurt my daughter?"

"Of course not," I lie again.

"Then that's good enough for me," Weston says simply. Relief floods through my body; after all I've done, after everything I've said, Weston is willing to take my word as truth.

"It won't be good enough for Luke," I say bitterly.

"Then we'll have to find something better. Something concrete. Evidence."

"...Why are you helping me?"

"Because, Rafael Rivera, you're my best friend. You're Anka's godfather. You know I'd do anything for you. And they won't just blame Ben, Raf. They'll say Anka had something to do with it."

"Why would they say that?"

"Because she's autistic. Because people like to make assumptions about things they don't understand. She can be violent... but never with people. She throws things, okay? She tears things apart. But she'd never do something like... _that_."

"Where would we find evidence?"

"It had to be someone from District 12. Either that, or a Peacekeeper. You know the worst people in this District, Raf, you know who'd do something like this. Make a list. We need to figure out who did this or else they're going to blame our kids."

"...Okay," I answer, names flying through my head. One in particular stands out.

Haymitch.

* * *

**Benjamin Rivera, 8**

The priest said Mom had to die because God needed her. I know that's not true, because I needed her more.

Aunt Charity said Mom had to die because God called her home. I know this isn't true either, because Mom never would have left me no matter who called her.

Aunt Kallie said Mom had to die because she was sick. I know for sure this isn't true because Mom would never have let a sickness tear her away from me.

Dad says Mom had to die because she was a cheating whore who slept with anyone she could get her hands on. I know this is true. Mom did something bad. She did a _lot_ of bad things. God made her pay for them. He stole her from me, because that's the only way Mom would ever have left me: kicking and screaming, fighting with all her life to stay by my side.

_I want a mom that will last forever_

_I want a mom to make it all better_

_I want a mom that will last forever_

_I want a mom that will love me whatever_

They whisper outside my room. Ben. Blood. Evidence. Raped. Murdered. Ben. Blood.

Ben.

The voices die down and I slip out of bed. Tiptoe across the blue carpet. Ease the door open onto a dark hallway. The only light comes from a pink room down the hall. I walk toward its heavenly glow.

Anka's room. Aunt Kallie is tucking her in. Not the way Dad tucks me in, throwing the covers over my body and saying goodnight, but the way Mom used to tuck me in. Pulling the sheets up first, then the comforter. Wrapping them securely around me. Kissing my cheek.

_I want a mom that'll take my hand_

_And make me feel like a holiday_

_A mom to tuck me in at night_

_And chase the monsters away_

"Nancy Drew?" Anka asks, staring up at her mother with no idea how lucky she is.

"Of course," Aunt Kallie says, smiling happily at her daughter. She takes a worn copy of Nancy Drew number 7 and begins reading chapter 7. "Nancy grabbed her flashlight..."

I sit down in the dark outside the bright room and lean against the wall, watching someone else's mom and pretending she's my mom. Pretending I'm being read a bed-time story. Pretending I'm loved.

_I want a mom to read me stories_

_And sing a lullaby _

_And if I have a bad dream,_

_To hold me when I cry_

I wrap my arms around myself and pretend Mom's hugging me. The tears make tiny stains on my new red shirt, but I don't mind. I close my eyes and conjure her face in my mind. She's smiling at me. She signs that she loves me. I concentrate as hard as I can, but eventually she fades away and there's nothing I can do to bring her back.

Kind of like real life.

_And when she says to me, she will always be there_

_To watch and protect me, I don't have to be scared_

_Oh, and when she says to me, I will always love you_

_I won't need to worry 'cause I'll know that it's true_

Aunt Kallie finishes the chapter and kisses Anka goodnight. Anka begs her not to leave. So Aunt Kallie stays.

That's not fair. How come _her_ mom gets to stay?

_I want a mom when I get lonely_

_Who will take the time to play_

_A mom who can be a friend _

_And find a rainbow when it's gray_

Memories flash through my mind: Mom teaching me how to bake cookies, Mom taking me grocery shopping and letting me pick out my favorite candy at the cash register, Mom hugging me when I told her I felt sad but I didn't know why.

I fall asleep in the hallway outside Anka's room, my back against the wall and my dreams filled with Mom.

_I want a mom._

* * *

**So there were only two deaths - I know, I know, there needs to be more blood. But this was only level one and level two. Anyone who's ever played a video game knows that the first level is almost always a tutorial, and the second one isn't much harder. The deaths will increase exponentially as the levels go up, so don't worry!**

Deaths:

_Demetri, District 4_

_Autumn, District 12_


	5. Red Herrings

**I haven't updated in almost four months, I think. I've been ridiculously busy with schoolwork, volunteering, work, and interning. I've never been so stressed in my life! I've been working on this chapter for a while, and it's long because I'm introducing four "new" characters who aren't really new. **

**Since my other three stories got deleted, the characters in them technically don't exist in this alternate universe anymore, so... I decided to bring back four of the favorites from the other stories. I know it's weird, but I think it'll make it more enjoyable, and I'm really excited about it. They'll be in the ten years ahead mystery part. Next chapter will be back in the arena, I promise! I just had to get these guys introduced first. **

**Really sorry for the slow updates, but please review! I hope you like this chapter!**

* * *

**Eugene Rendrin, Captain of District 12's Peacekeeper Intelligence Center**

The moment the rebellion ended, the President built the Peacekeeper Intelligence Center right here in District 12. It stretches eight floors into the sky, with an additional three floors hidden below ground. The PIC trains every Peacekeeper in Panem, has information on every citizen in every District, and contains an entire floor of surveillance computers that allow agents to keep an eye on every District every minute of every day.

We trained Panem's first detectives in order to investigate anyone accused of supporting the rebel cause. Hundreds of Peacekeepers, political officials, and Gamemakers were found guilty and swiftly executed. Three Victors were killed, their deaths broadcasted for the entire nation to see.

Panem simply cannot afford another rebellion.

District 12 came under fire immediately. All of our Peacekeepers were killed, just to be safe. One rotten apple spoils the whole barrel; if every Peacekeeper needed to be killed to ensure that Katniss or Peeta hadn't turned even a single one of them, then that was the sacrifice that we would make. Peace comes at a high price, and the first thing to be sold is always humanity. New Peacekeepers arrived by train from other Districts, and a new era of espionage and fear began.

"As you know," Ariadne, the dreaded publicist, says to me. "This whole Hope Eve fiasco has caused a panic in the District that's been very disruptive. The citizens suspect Capitol involvement in her death, and there are rumors of another uprising. It simply won't do."

"So you want my detectives to investigate this for you?" I ask impatiently.

"Absolutely not. You see, the Capitol believes this was an... internal job. And therefore we'd like to deal with it internally. There were a number of important political figures at the wedding tonight, many of whom dislike Luke Eve very much. We'll run an internal investigation, find the culprit, and take care of him quietly. I'm sure you understand the gravity of this situation, Captain - if any civilians discover a member of the Capitol raped and murdered a young girl from the District, I can assure you that there _will _be talk of another uprising."

"So you don't need my detectives, then?"

"I need your detectives to find me a scapegoat. I need them to draw a lot of attention to themselves, make sure everyone knows they're investigating this crime, and I need them to focus on people in the District. The District needs to believe that this case is a top priority to the Capitol, and they need someone to blame. So send your detectives out, and make sure they find a believable suspect. The arrest should be highly publicized. Just, whatever you do, make sure they stay far away from any _real_ suspects. They can't be smart enough to _actually_ solve the case, do you understand me? They just need to _think_ that they've solved the case, and they need to convince the entire District that they have, too."

"I think I have the perfect detectives for you, ma'am. These two have made more arrests than all of my other detectives put together."

"You obviously didn't understand me, I want detectives who _can't_ solve a case, not - "

"_Of_ those arrests, do you know how many were correct?" Ariadne stares at me impatiently. "Eight percent, ma'am. Eight percent. They have a less than one in ten chance of arresting the right guy, at any given time. They're sloppy, they're lazy, they're liable to arrest the first person who gives them a dirty look, and best of all, they draw attention to themselves."

"How much attention?"

"Getting attention is just about the only thing they're good at."

"...Bring them in."

I grind my teeth together in frustration at this woman telling me what to do, but pull my wrist up to my mouth anyways.

"Darwin and Splice," I say into the tiny walkie-talkie under my sleeve. "Send them in."

We wait silently, Ariadne rapidly typing into her PDA. I eye the door impatiently until it finally opens and Avenaye Darwin lopes in.

"Hey, Boss," he says, offering me a two-fingered salute as he heads to the refrigerator. Without so much as glancing at Ariadne, he pulls a plastic lunch box, clearly designed for a child, out of the fridge and slaps it loudly onto the table.

"Who are those people?" Ariadne asks, clearly disgusted by Avenaye's childish nature. She points to the cover of his plastic lunch box.

"Uh, only the greatest superhero team to every exist in all of eternity," Avenaye answers in disbelief. "The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. TMNT? Have you seriously never heard of them? Do you, like, live under a freaking _rock_?"

"Avenaye!" I snap.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I just... I get upset about my turtles. You know that." Avenaye proceeds to pull out a pack of fruit snacks and a juice box.

"The reason I called you in is because - " I'm cut off by the door opening once more, this time being slammed closed by Detective Monkshood Splice. A fresh cut curves down her right temple, blood oozes from her left nostril, and her face in general is grimy, as though it was recently shoved into the dusty streets of District 12.

Both Monk and Avenaye are outsiders, trucked in from Districts 3 and 2, respectively, immediately after the slaughter of every District 12 Peacekeeper three years ago. Of all the men and women under my command, Monk and Avenaye are by far the worst at their jobs in terms of solving cases. But I promoted both to detectives because they're the only two in the entire Intelligence Center who can get the truth out of people. Avenaye is disarming in his goofy, childish nature and appearance, but behind all that shit is a brain that knows how to put two and two together. People let down their guard around Avenaye, start getting cocky, and they start to slip up.

Monk, on the other hand, immediately gets your guard up, your heart pumping in your ears, and your pulse through the roof. She'll sit there, quiet as a church mouse, unsettling you with her murky eyes that peruse your body as she contemplates you, and then all of a sudden she's flipping the table in front of you, smashing a vase into the floor, or shoving you out of your chair. Monk has the horrifically annoying habit of getting directly in front of your face and staring deeply into your eyes, analyzing everything about them. You get so uncomfortable that you can't help but give yourself away by gulping, avoiding her eye contact, pursing your lips, breathing shallowly, sweating... There's a reason people tell you to look them in the eye when they know you're lying. And looking Monk in the eye is like looking at a Cyclops - the fright alone makes most people slip up, and Monk's erratic nature tends to unsettle even the hardest criminals.

The worst is when she stares into your eyes for a good thirty seconds, her face so close that your noses are almost touching, and then she smirks. "Liar," she'll huff happily, as though she expected you to be a dumb-ass and you just proved her right.

At the moment she pauses in front of the door, her shoulders perpetually slumped forward and her head tilted to the side, as usual, as stares at the three of us, all staring back at her in discomfort. Except, of course, for Avenaye; having worked as Monk's partner for the last three years, he's completely immune to her freakish antics. I'll admit that I initially made them partners simply because anyone I partnered with Avenaye, then 30, ended up requesting a new partner by the end of the business week. Like clockwork. And Monk, the new grunt who was only 16 (all grunts tend to be around 16; Peacekeeper training begins at age 10), needed to spend a year under the wing of an experienced Peacekeeper, learning the ropes and such, in order to complete her training. Much to my surprise, however, Monk turned out to be as freaky as a mental patient, and she and Avenaye's different styles of weirdness fit together like puzzle pieces.

But time flies, and now Avenaye is 33 and Monk is 19, and I, their commanding officer, am about to throw them to the wolves for the Capitol. It's never good to walk around poking your nose into things you know little about, but by creating fake suspects and leading them on a wild goose chase, the Capitol is effectively sending Avenaye and Monk into the unforgiving District 12 like headless chickens.

"What's everyone staring at?" Monk asks in annoyance, throwing herself down into the seat next to Avenaye and tossing her feet up on the table.

They make quite the pair; while Avenaye is tall and lanky, walking about with a happy-go-lucky spring in his step, Monk is short and thick, walking erratically from left to right as though permanently inebriated, tilting her head to analyze everything she passes with an annoyed face.

"You've got a little blood on your face," Avenaye tells her, pointing to his own temple to show her where the blood is. "Right here."

"Yeah?" she asks him in annoyance.

"Yeah."

Monk snatches Avenaye's sandwich, peels the two pieces of bread apart, and smushes the jelly side against Avenaye's shirt.

"Hey, Ave? You got a little something on your shirt. Right there."

Avenaye shrugs, wipes some jelly off of his shirt with his index finger, and proceeds to lick the finger.

"Enough!" Ariadne snaps in disgust.

"...Did she just yell at us?" Avenaye whispers to Monk.

"Screamed like a banshee," Monk whispers back.

"It hurt my feelings."

"It lowered my self-esteem."

"You two were handpicked by the Captain and the Capitol for the Hope Eve case," Ariadne continues sharply, as though they hadn't spoken at all. "Congratulations."

"Do we get a congratulations party?" Monk asks curiously.

"Will there be balloons?" Avenaye asks, seeming seriously concerned, as he licks the jelly directly from his shirt.

"No party poppers. One time, I was at a party and there were a bunch of party poppers and they all went off and then there was like all this confetti like all over the place, and when I say all over the place, I mean _all over the place_, like in - "

"And no trick candles. I don't like it when cake lies to me. Are you getting all of this? I don't see writing."

"And in the toilet, and the fridge, and the washing machine - "

"Bouncy house is a must, but I've gained just a little bit of weight, so make sure you check how many pounds that baby can take before you order it."

"But there wasn't any in the dryer, which was super weird 'cause of how - "

The two babble on and on, seemingly oblivious that the other is even speaking. But I know from experience that they'll remember everything the other has said anyway.

Ariadne takes a whistle from her expensive and fashionable coat's pocket and blows into it. The loud, shrill whistle echoes in my ears; Avenaye and Monk immediately cover their own ears and groan simultaneously.

"Are you two idiots finished?" Ariadne snaps. Avenaye's eyebrows jump at the change in her attitude, whereas Monk smiles in delight. She loves truth, be it true words or true personalities. "Avenaye, here's the case file. You'll have to read it yourself - I've been told that your partner only reads at a third grade level."

"You learn a lot of important words in third grade," Monk says simply.

"It's true," Avenaye confirms, glancing at the file in his hands.

"And you," Ariadne says, staring at Monk with a superior smirk on her face. "You just try not to get in the way while the grownups are working, Monkshood."

Monk is out of her seat like a shot; before I can so much as blink, she's on her knees on the table, Ariadne's purse strap clenched tightly in her hand. Pure hatred emanates from Monk's eyes, and I recognize that she's going back in time, substituting Ariadne for someone in the past who stepped on her because she wasn't yet brave enough to stand up to them.

"My name," Monk breathes heavily and angrily, like a starving wolf who's being mocked by a group of caged chickens. "Is Monk. Never Monkshood. _Monk_."

"Get the hell off of me!" Ariadne snaps, but it's obvious that she's rattled.

"Are you a liar?" Monk asks sinisterly, jerking the purse strap closer to herself so that Ariadne is yanked forward, her face uncomfortably close to her captor's.

"What?" Ariadne gasps.

"Have you done a bad thing, Ariadne? Have you done a _very..._ bad thing?"

Fear and shame flash through Ariadne's eyes immediately; she's fallen for Monk's trick. Everyone's done a bad thing they're ashamed of, at some point in their life. Just because Monk knows that doesn't mean she knows shit about _what_ that bad thing is. I need to interfere, but wait to see if Monk might just settle down by herself first. Just last week I witnessed her yank the earrings straight down and out of a woman's ears, ripping the skin directly in half. I don't need that kind of shit happening to me.

Monk leans forward and rests her forehead on Ariadne's, all games over, and glares menacingly into her adversary's face.

"Don't fuck with me, princess," Monk hisses, holding Ariadne's purse strap for several more seconds, making that message sink it, before releasing her. Monk then jumps off the table and saunters for the door. Ariadne glares at me viciously.

"I assure you she will be reprimanded," I tell her in my most commanding voice.

"No, she won't," Avenaye says to himself, causing me to turn and look at him. During the heated confrontation occurred just inches in front of him, he calmly took off his shirt and is now busy trying to rub the jelly back onto the piece of bread it originally came off of. I stare at his skinny torso, completely void of muscle, and sigh.

"I want a full report by tomorrow night," Ariadne hisses as her heels click away down the hall.

"Wow," Avenaye sighs. "She's one tightly-wound lady."

"Darwin, please," I say as I collapse into a chair. "I've suddenly got a migraine."

"Tough luck, sir. You want half of my PB and J? You can have the jelly half, I don't want it anymore."

**Detective Avenaye Darwin, 33, District 12**

I am eleven years older than Monk, but someday I will attend her funeral. There are precious few certainties when it comes to Monk, but this is one of them.

It might be in twenty years, or it might be next week. All I know is that it will happen - she'll get herself killed and I'll have to watch her be lowered into the ground. It'll be a small funeral, that's for sure. I'll come. My daughter will be there. The Captain will be there if he doesn't beat her to the grave, but only because she's one of his detectives, not because he actually cares if she lives or dies. Maybe Monk's family will show up, or maybe they'll make up some half-hearted excuse to skip on the black sheep's funeral. And that's it. Nobody else cares about Monk Splice.

This is what I'm thinking as Monk walks into my house without bothering to knock, pushes past me without saying a word, without even so much as a nod of acknowledgement, and opens my freezer. She pulls out an ice pack, places it gingerly on her temple, and throws herself onto one of the barstools around the kitchen's island.

For my part, I barely glance up from my Fruit Loops as I eat them across the table from Monk.

"Morning, Dad," Scotlyn says tiredly as she comes racing down the stairs, backpack in hand.

"Why are you up at six in the morning?" I ask in response, still refusing to raise my eyes from my cereal.

"To make sure you leave for work on time. Someone needs to be the adult."

"S'true," I confirm as I sloppily slurp my cereal. But her comment stings a little.

"Good morning, Monk," Scottie throws over her shoulder as she rummages around in the cupboard.

"Oh, really?" Monk grumbles. "What's so good about it?"

I catch Scottie trying to hide a smile as she pours two bowls of cereal. Despite how drastically different my intelligent, thoughtful, kind 15-year-old daughter is from Monk, her antics always seem to entertain Scottie. And despite her vast, uncountable number of flaws, Monk kind of saved my relationship with my daughter.

She was ten when Cora and I divorced. An unflinchingly bossy individual, Cora was attractive to me for about three months - she was the perfect woman to put together my tragically unstructured life and give me direction, my father assured. The bastard. He forgot to mention direction is boring. Forgot to tell me it's a thousand times more fun to toss the map out the window, crank up the Kidz Bop and go wherever the hell you decide to go. Of course, by then it was too late. Just about everyone in the Districts gets married at 18; what the hell else are we gonna do with our lives? And let me tell you, once that ring is on a lady's finger, it's damn hard to pry it off again.

Ten years I suffered the whole-wheat bread, the fat-free milk, the OCD calorie counting; I put up with the no-TV-at-the-dinner-table rule, I sat every night for the requisite thirty minutes, listening to every little detail about Cora's day, I checked over Scottie's homework every damn night; I made the bed every morning when I awoke at 5:30, and not a minute later; I even folded my underwear. Because she told me to. Again, and again, and again. Nag, nag, nag.

Okay, fine. I went with it for about three weeks. Then there were ten years of arguments about why I didn't do all that shit. But still, ten years is ten years. Things look so much different at 28 than they do at 18. And, honestly? Divorce isn't that bad. It's like taking off a band-aid. A band-aid that, when you rip it off, you find an oozing, infected hole in your arm. At night, the maggots crawl out.

Scottie suddenly swaps my cereal with the cereal she just poured, and I immediately go from Fruit Loops to Wheaties.

"Hey!" I whine. "What the hell?"

"Language, Dad," Scottie lectures. "The cereals you eat are nothing but sugar. Do you know what diabetes is?"

Monk happily begins to eat my discarded Fruit Loops. Scottie immediately swaps her cereal out as well, and now we're both stuck with Wheaties.

"I hate this house," Monk mumbles.

"Me, too," I mumble back.

"You only have five minutes to eat that," Scottie warns, pointing to the clock.

I was 28, newly divorced, and spending every other week with a ten-year-old daughter I had no idea what to do with. The first two years were hell. She barely talked to me. Spent her time studying or reading, responded to all of my questions with one-word answers. And then Monk came. A third member of the household (and she is, considering she spends more time here than at her own apartment), an unreliable, unstable, lazy, grouchy, foul-languaged shit-head, really livened things up and lifted the tension in the house. Everyone thinks of a third wheel as a bad thing, but in the end, isn't a tricycle much easier to ride than a bike? In any event, and this is gonna sound cheesy, but I honestly think that Scottie and I are best friends now.

"You can still come to the father-daughter dance tonight, right, Dad?" Scottie asks, a serious look overcoming her face as she leans on the table.

"I'll be there with bells on," I answer confidently. In the past few years I've missed spelling bees, award ceremonies, piano recitals, parent-teacher conferences, and even Scottie's eighth grade graduation. Although, in my defense, what the hell is so special about finishing the eighth grade? But the point is that the father-daughter dance is one thing I'm not going to miss. I've had it circled in red on my calendar for weeks. Today I'm going to be reliable. Today I'm going to be an adult.

"I never went to my father-daughter dance," Monk laments loudly, drawing all the attention to herself as she's prone to do. "You want to know why? Because Daddy dearest took my sister instead."

"You could have all gone together," Scottie says, her eyebrows knitting together as though she sees Monk as a math problem that can be solved with just a few calculations.

"It's father-daughter, not father-daughters. But, whatever. I'm over it. Just because my precious childhood memory was destroyed doesn't mean I can't function as a human being. Just 'cause I missed one of the most pivotal moments of my life doesn't mean I'll try to fill my empty heart with booze..." Monk looks off into the distance with fake sadness on her face, glancing back at Scottie and me every few moments to see if we're feeling bad for her. Mooching an invitation, as always.

I used to think it was just because she was bored and had nothing better to do, but now I understand that we're her surrogate family, and she desperately wants to be included in family activities. It's why she's over here every friday for game night; it's why she spends every holiday with us; it's why she's stopped feeling like my detective partner and more like a wayward cousin crashing at my house.

"You should come with us tonight," Scottie offers excitedly. "Just because you didn't go before doesn't mean you can't go now."

"No, that would be stupid. I'm an adult. I wouldn't have fun. There probably won't be anything good to eat. I bet the music will be terrible. And all the people will be boring. I would hate it." Monk stares down at the table for a moment. "What time should I be ready?"

"You can stop by your apartment after work and get all your stuff, then come back and change over here. Then we can all walk over together."

"That won't be necessary. All of my clothes are already here."

My head snaps up from my cereal. "What?" I ask in surprise.

"I moved in here," Monk says calmly. "My toothbrush is in the freezer, too. Go ahead and check."

"Why is it in the freezer?!"

"To give my gums a little jolt when I brush them."

"...You didn't _really_ move in here, did you?"

"Did I seriously forget to mention that? I need to write these things down."

"_Why_ did you move in?"

"My apartment was too small to keep Ray locked up in all day. He needs space to move around. On an unrelated note, I was kicked out of my apartment because it was too small to keep such a big dog in."

"You brought the dog here?" I whisper, as though saying too loudly might make it come true.

"Ray!" Monk whistles and Ray comes limping into the kitchen. He's a big mutt - some kind of cross between a golden retriever and a husky - that Monk found on the street last year. The only thing we know for certain about him is that he's old.

"You brought the dog," I sigh. Ray's tail thumps wildly against my leg as he stares up at me happily. He's a bigger goof than me. That giant tail of his makes him a bull in a china shop wherever he goes; I've seen him knock over an entire fish tank with it. Patting him on the head, I turn wearily to Monk. "How did you even get in the house?"

"That wasn't easy. One of your upstairs windows was open, so I had to climb up to the second floor, cut the screen, and climb in that way. I actually ripped my hoodie in the process, if you want to reimburse me for that. It was a forty-dollar hoodie. Nice quality."

I glare at her.

"Okay, it was only ten dollars."

I don't even blink.

"You can just leave the money on my desk at work."

"What about the window screen you cut?" I ask, feigning interest in this trivial issue. Who gives a damn about a window screen, really? I won't bother getting it fixed. I don't even like opening the windows.

"You should probably get that fixed, yeah. It was really dusty, too, gave me an allergy attack. Had to go get some allergy medicine. I still have the receipt, so you can reimburse me for that, too."

"You're such a little shit," I say with a smile, dumping my cereal in the sink.

"You're both late for work," Scottie sighs in disappointment as she shoves three large textbooks into her backpack.

"We're doing some investigating today," I respond vaguely. "We're not actually going to the office."

"...You got the Hope Eve case," Scottie says simply. Damn it.

"Uh...yeah. Yeah, we did."

"Do you know who did it?"

"Not yet. We're working on it. Just...just be smart, okay? Don't hang out in the woods until we've got this figured out, okay?"

"I don't have time to hang out anywhere, Dad. I'll see you tonight. Don't forget!"

"My mind is a steel trap," I call after her. "Nothing gets out!" As soon as she's far enough down the driveway, I slam the door shut and lock it. Reaching under the garbage can, I slide out the file Ariadne handed me last night.

"If you thought that was a good hiding place, I'm gonna have to correct you," Monk says lazily, throwing herself onto the living room armchair and arranging herself upside down, so that her head is resting on the floor. Her thinking position. As one might expect, she doesn't get an awful lot of thinking done that way. Or any way, for that matter.

"I was hiding it from Scottie. I didn't want her to see the pictures." I spread the pictures and documents across the living room floor. Hope, bloody and lifeless, stares up at me accusingly. _You let them hurt me_.

The hardest part about being a detective is that you never really help anyone. You give them answers, sure, but that's not what they really want. They want their loved ones back.

"So what happened to your face?" I ask curiously, staring at the dried blood around Monk's nose and temple.

"Experiment," she says simply.

Ah. Her experiments. Monk is Jekyll and Hyde, all the way. A darkness lives inside of her, one that she can't control. And at night she gets overtaken by her Hyde, and goes out experimenting. Pushing people's buttons. Seeing how far she can go before they snap. Seeing how badly they snap. She watches their body for signs, tries to learn what indicates an impending attack, or an empty threat. It comes in handy when she gets into the interrogation room and starts hammering a suspect.

She says it's like acupuncture. The rest of us detectives, we just toss the needles in where we think they should go, and hope for the best. But Monk, she's trained herself. She knows the pressure points, she knows what's going to be gentle and what's going to hurt. While the rest of us ask questions and wait for the suspect to either answer or explode, Monk slides a needle in and knows exactly what reaction she's going to get. Knows exactly how many needles she can slide in before she gets her ass kicked, knows exactly where she can slide them and where she can't.

So Ariadne was right. Monk doesn't read case files. She reads people.

**Detective Monk Splice, 19, District 12**

"You take the photos, I'll read the documents," Avenaye says, sliding the photos over to my head without looking at them.

"Fine." I place the first photo directly in front of my head, which rests upside down on the carpet, so that the picture is at a ninety-degree angle to my head. This is why I sit upside down to analyze photos: it requires much more concentration and attention to understand what you're looking at. You notice things more. "Look at this one."

"I don't want to look at it."

"It's important! I pretty much just solved the case. Look at it, Avenaye."

He reluctantly pulls the photo closer to himself, and I slide off the couch as he does so. I pull myself into a squat in front of him.

"It's just the dead girl," he says softly. "What am I supposed to be looking for?"

"Scottie," I tell him simply. "Is she in that picture?"

"What? Of course she's not in the picture!"

"Exactly. That's not Scottie. That's not your daughter. That's Hope Eve." I take the picture from his hands and toss it to the carpet. "That's someone else's daughter. So you've gotta suck it up and look at whatever else we gotta look at, and you gotta do it without flinching. Don't get emotionally invested in this, man. You can't think like a dad, you have to think like a killer, or else we're never gonna solve this one."

"I'm not _emotionally invested_, asshole. I just feel bad, that's all." He indignantly picks up the documents he had been reading and tries to get Hope's image out of his mind.

"Forget this shit," I say, scooping all of the papers and pictures together and stuffing them back in their folder. "The killer's not in this folder, he's outside, and I'm gonna find him." I grab my red windbreaker and head out the door.

"Where are we going?" Avenaye shouts after me.

"When a kid dies, who are always the number one suspects?" I ask from his stoop as he hesitates in the kitchen door.

"...No, not this time. Don't go asking them questions, Monk. You can't - "

"Mommy and daddy." I answer my own question and jump down the stoop, headed for the Victor's Village. Avenaye throws on a black hoodie as he chases me down footpaths and tries to stop me.

"You can't seriously think they did this, Monk," he pants, grabbing at my arm. I pull away and point to the mansion just ahead of us.

"Fact: Daddy carried Hope's corpse out of the woods. Fact: Daddy only lives in that house precisely _because_ he killed kids. Fact: There's something wrong in that house. I know it. They're too perfect, Ave. There's something really, really... _off_."

"Fact!" Avenaye shouts, jumping over roots and ducking under branches to keep up with me. "Luke never killed anyone in the Games, he won by default. Last man standing."

"Irrelevant!"

"_Fact_! There _is_ something wrong in that house, and I can tell you what it is if you slow the hell down!"

I pause momentarily, crossing my arms impatiently across my chest.

"They didn't do it, Monk," he begins. "Any dad would carry his daughter's body out of the woods. No one would just leave their daughter lying there all alone, in the dark. Luke's never killed anyone before, and he's the first person in the _history_ of the Hunger Games to win without killing even _one_ person."

"What's wrong with them, then? What goes on in that house when no one else can see?"

"Charity!" he blurts out, panting heavily. "She can't have kids, Monk."

"Oh, right," I say sarcastically. "I see - they kidnapped her. Did you watch Raising Arizona last night or something? Or is this a Moses thing? Did she float down the river to them, Detective?"

"La la la la la! I'm not listening!" He covers his ears childishly and sticks his tongue out at me.

"Stop being stupid!"

"I am rubber and you are glue, anything you say - " He's interrupted by a clod of dirt hitting him in the face. I immediately scramble for another scoop of dirt as he spits little bits of the previous scoop out of his mouth. Before I can throw more dirt, however, he tackles me and lands us both on the ground of the woods. He shoves dirt in my face while I throw acorns at his neck.

"They had a surrogate!" Avenaye finally snaps at me. We both immediately ceasefire. "She's their daughter, but they used a surrogate. Which you would've _known_ if you'd bothered to ask me what the file said!"

"...That changes things ever so slightly," I admit. We stand up, brushing our clothing off. Both of our faces and hands are covered in dirt, but that's the way I prefer it anyway. More off-putting for the suspects.

"There's more," Avenaye sing-songs, turning his face and refusing to tell me.

"Tell me!" I whine. "Tell me, or I'll make a scene!"

"Not until you apologize."

"Apologize for what?"

"You really don't remember? It happened thirty seconds ago! You're so insensitive!"

"FINE! Avenaye, _I'm sorry_."

"Sorry for what?"

I groan. "I'm sorry for making fun of everything you said."

"And?"

"And for throwing dirt in your face."

"_And_?"

"And for hitting you with acorns."

"Anything else?"

"I'd like to apologize in advance for the way that I'm going to fight you over who gets to ring the doorbell in a minute, and for the way that I'll probably mock you in front of the suspects, and if Ray has an accident in your house, then I'd also like to get that apology out of the way, too."

"Okay. Apologies _not_ accepted."

"None of them?"

"None of them."

"Tell me the other thing, Avenaye. Tell me, tell me, tell me!" My voice raises like a child's.

"Before they got a surrogate, Luke and Charity adopted a kid. Randall Eve. They adopted him when he was eight. Now he's eighteen."

"Are you talking about that creepy kid who lives in their basement? I thought that was a freaky nephew, or cousin or something."

"Nope. Adopted. You notice how he never comes out of that house during the day? He only leaves at night. Weird enough for you?"

"Hold up." A darkness so thick I can practically see it slips out from under the Eve's front door and races to my feet, wrapping itself inside my head. "...Why the fuck wasn't he at the wedding yesterday?"

"...Maybe because he was in the woods," Avenaye says slowly, that same darkness taking hold in his head. "But they've got two younger boys, also, and they weren't at the wedding, either."

"Where were they?"

"We'll have to ask Luke. Okay, so far I want to talk to Randall, Luke, Charity..."

"Missy," I add. "And Arthur. You never know, maybe Arthur was jealous of how much Missy loved Hope, or maybe Missy was jealous of how much Luke loved Hope. Even if they had nothing to do with it, it was _their_ freaking wedding. They've gotta have a list of who was there, who didn't show up. They'll know if someone was there who shouldn't have been, or if someone _wasn't _there who should have been.

"Fine, but I'm ringing the bell." Before I can fight him over it, he shoves me to the ground and takes off at full speed for the Eves' front door. I valiantly try to beat him there, but after a few steps at a light sprint, I'm out of breath. He rings the bell as I'm huffing at the bottom of the porch, pulling myself pathetically up the railing like an old woman without her walker.

Several moments pass before Missy opens the door partially, the chain still across.

"Good morning, Miss Eve," Avenaye says in his most solemn voice.

"Are you a reporter?" she asks hostilely.

"Detective Avenaye Darwin, Miss, and this is my partner Detective Monk Splice." He holds up his badge and the two of them look to me. I fumble around my jacket pockets, but my own badge isn't with me. I widen my eyes and give Avenaye a small shake of my head. "Did you lose your badge?"

"It's not in my coat!" I whisper urgently.

"Are you serious right now? You _idiot_! How could you lose it?"

"It doesn't help to yell at someone who's already upset!"

Suddenly the door closes, the latch is undone, the door opens again and Missy steps out, fully dressed in a simple, black grieving dress. She shuts the door quietly behind her. "What do you want?" she hisses angrily.

"Well, um..." Avenaye licks his lips, trying to figure out how to begin. "First of all, we're very sorry for your loss, Miss Eve."

"It's _Mrs. Spade_," Missy snaps. "I'm sure you heard about my wedding yesterday." She says it bitterly - practically spits the words out at us.

"That's why we're here, actually. We're investigating the crime and we'd like to talk to you, as well as the rest of the family."

"It's seven in the morning! My niece died _last night_. What the hell is wrong with you? You can wait until after the funeral."

"Well, actually," I begin, clearing my throat. "She technically wasn't your niece, seeing as how you were kind of adopted and all. So - "

"She was my niece." The determination in her voice throws me off guard; for the first time, she has to choke back thick emotion. "I loved her more than you could ever understand. So don't you dare come here when my family is _reeling_ from her loss and tell me that I wasn't her aunt."

I blink: Missy just became an interesting subject. I mean... suspect. My eyes widen as I wonder what she would do if I pushed her. Just a little shove. I wonder if I would see a flash of anger in her eyes or a flash of fiery excitement at the prospect of a fight.

But Avenaye is watching me and immediately sees what I'm thinking.

"We find that it's best to interview people as soon as possible, while the memory is still fresh," Avenaye smoothly intercepts. Liar. You interview suspects at an inconvenient, unexpected time. Catch them off guard.

"Fine," Missy says, leaning forward, arms crossed. "I'll give you my statement right now. _Fuck you_." She steps back into the house and slams the door shut. The locks click back into place.

"Nice going," I scoff at Avenaye as we hop down the porch steps.

"You're blaming _me_? You were about to pick a fight with her!"

"To get _information_, Avenaye!"

"You know where we can get even better information?"

A wide smile grows on my face. "The funeral home."

**Detective Avenaye Darwin, 33, District 12**

We enter the Masterfield and Kitch Funeral Home at a little around nine in the morning. The first thing I notice, as always, is the military-like precision of the place. Everything is perfect. There is an even number of everything. Nothing is out of place. Not even a speck of dust.

"Okay, now pour a little more into this urn," Melvin Kitch orders. Soren Masterfield does as he's told, tipping the urn into his hands so that ashes spill into Melvin's urn. "Wait, that was too much. I'll put a little back... There, now they're even."

"Hey, you guys have a minute?" I ask casually, ignoring the criminal act of mixing their customers' ashes together simply to placate Melvin's OCD.

"Dear God, what are you doing!" Melvin shouts suddenly, pointing to our shoes. I glance down. Monk and I tracked some dirt onto the carpet.

"We have to _live _here!" Soren screams, immediately escalating the situation up a notch.

"Soren, what have we been working on?" Melvin asks his companion calmly.

"Expressing our feelings through cleaning," Soren answers seriously, eager to please Melvin.

"Good boy. Why don't you go do that?"

"I would love to." Soren disappears in search of a vacuum.

"Now, why don't we all have a seat?" Melvin offers, leading us into the equally perfect sitting room. At the other end of the room I see the church door. Hope's funeral will be held in there in just two days. Chills sliver up my arms.

There are three armchairs in a semicircle around a coffee table. I take the one farthest to the left and Monk plops herself down in the middle armchair. Melvin stares at us.

"Um... could we switch seats?" he asks Monk.

"What?" she snaps.

"So that we're in height order. You're the shortest, so you should be on the end."

"Just move," I whisper to Monk.

"Move your feet, lose your seat," Monk tells Melvin unsympathetically.

"Exactly. Please move your feet so that I can have that seat," Melvin responds, not getting it.

The dispute ends with me wrestling Monk into the next seat, but eventually it does end.

"Now," Melvin says happily, rubbing his hands along the arms of his chair. "What did you need?"

"We'd like to look at-"

I'm interrupted by the whir of Soren's vacuum. Melvin acts as though he doesn't even notice it.

"...Hey, Soren, buddy?" I call. "You think you could wait a minute?"

The vacuum pauses for a moment. Then he turns it back on.

"I'll handle it," Monk offers, jumping up and stalking out of the room.

"Melvin, we'd really just like to see Hope Eve's body. I know you started the autopsy this morning, so-"

"No! Don't touch my vacuum!" Soren screams. There's the sound of a vacuum sucking on flesh, followed by another scream.

"-So I was hoping you could show us the results, tell us what you found, and show us the condition of the body," I continue, ignoring the screams.

"Help! No, not my face!" The vacuum suddenly stops.

"And I don't want to _ever_ hear you turn this on _again._ _EVER_." Monk's voice echoes from the hall.

Melvin leads me back into the hall and we find Soren on the floor, tied to the vacuum by the vacuum's cord. Monk is investigating the urns, reaching her hand in and staring at the material curiously.

"Is this sand?" she asks. "Do you guys, like, go to the beach and collect sand together? 'Cause that's kinda kinky."

I snatch her by the arm and jerk my head towards Soren. I give her a meaningful look.

"You want me to kill him?" she whispers in mild surprise.

"No!" I whisper back. "Untie him!"

Monk groans dramatically. I ignore her and follow Melvin down the basement steps. In the center of the basement is a steel table. Hope's little body lies on it pathetically. I take a deep breath before stepping closer. When I see that they did, indeed, already start the autopsy, I back away quickly and focus my attention on the wall behind Melvin.

"So what did you find?" I ask quietly.

"Cause of death was strangulation."

"Three post-mortem wounds," Soren says as he comes down the steps, followed by a sullen Monk. She immediately perks up when she sees the body. Unlike me, she's attracted to it like a magnet. Monk studies it closely, intrigued by the whole idea of death.

"Only three," Melvin says sadly, shaking his head.

"One more would've made it an even number," Soren explains with equal sadness. "I mean, if you're gonna do something..."

"Do it right," Melvin finishes for him.

"Exactly."

"It's disgusting, really."

"What were the wounds?" I ask loudly, interrupting them.

"They came from a sword," Melvin answers. "Two stab wounds in the stomach, one in the chest."

"Why would someone stab her after they strangled her?"

Soren shrugs with a roll of his eyes, as though this is a stupid question. "I don't know. Maybe he wanted to make sure she was dead. Maybe he wanted to confuse the detectives."

"Maybe he did it for kicks," Monk suggests.

"No, wait," I say slowly. "I think Soren was right. I think he wanted to confuse us."

"Or maybe there were two people. Maybe one strangled her while the other stabbed her."

"Good." I point to Monk approvingly. "Two killers. We should look into that."

"I know we should," Monk grumbles. "That's why I said it."

"I know, I was saying you were right."

"It sounded condescending."

"I'll work on it."

"Thank you. Who raped her?"

This sudden change of subject startles me and makes me feel a little nauseous. I had been hoping to ease into that one slowly.

"No one," Melvin says in a bored voice.

"Her tights and underwear were around her ankles," I say softly. "She was raped."

"No, she wasn't," Soren chimes in. "Just a red herring."

"Maybe the guy got interrupted," I suggest.

"No, it was a red herring. Maybe it was a female murderer. Maybe she wanted you to think it was a male."

"How do you know it was just a red herring?"

"Because the blood on her underwear is from the sword wounds on her upper body," Melvin sighs, as though he's just as tired of my stupidity as Soren is. "That's the only place she bled from. Someone purposely put that blood on her underwear so that you would just _assume._"

"Well, I guess the saying is right, then."

"What saying?"

"The one about assuming. What it makes out of you and me." I tiptoe around the word _ass_, because I know Soren and Melvin are sensitive to swearing.

"Assumers," Soren answers in an annoyed tone, as though to emphasis just how stupid I am. "It makes assumers out of you and me. _Obviously_."

"Yeah," I pretend to agree. Coming here is the worst part of my job. Always. Without fail.

"So did you find any D or A?" Monk asks in a bored tone. She begins opening caskets and peering in. Sometimes she crinkles her face in disgust; other times she offers an approving nod. Sometimes she smiles and stifles a laugh.

The things that go on in her head.

"D or A?" I ask condescendingly. "What are you talking about?"

"D and A, Nancy Drew," Monk snaps, shaking her head in disappointment. "Why don't you try watching Law and Order sometime? You might learn something."

"Are you talking about DNA?" I ask in confusion.

"Yeah, we did find some D," Soren confirms. "No A, though."

"Well, can we use the D without the A?" Monk asks worriedly.

"You can, it's just..."

"What?"

"Well, D is for males, and A is for females," Soren sighs unhappily.

"So that means... we can't test any female suspects?"

"I'm sorry."

"This is just great. _Just great_. God, what are we gonna do, Avenaye?"

"DNA is one thing," I answer in confusion. "You can't find D without finding N and A. It... it doesn't make any sense."

"Oh, thank you for the help, Scooby Doo. Why don't you just leave this to the professionals, okay? You're not being any help right now. Soren, what are we gonna do?"

"We'll keep looking for the A, but... I can't make any promises," Soren answers dramatically.

Oh, for the love of...

"But if we bring some DNA samples in, can you compare it to the... the D that you found?" I ask, feeling stupid.

"Of course," Melvin says. "But without the A, I don't know if our answers will be very helpful."

"Oh, they will be, Melvin." I yank Monk out of the wheelchair and head for the stairs. "Thanks, guys. You've been a lot of help."

"Soren, _don't_ lick the casket! I don't want to have to tell you again!" Melvin's shouts follow us up the steps.

They're impossible to deal with, but they get the job done. No one is better at finding DNA matches: Melvin and Soren can find nearly invisible differences in DNA in a split-second. They always know when something isn't perfect. Always.

"Aww, shit!" Monk shouts as she trips over the vacuum she had tied Soren to earlier.

"You're a regular James Bond, you know that?" I ask sarcastically, stepping over body.

"I didn't fall! ...I threw myself at the ground because I was so pissed at you!"

"I mean, honestly, did you take ballet lessons as a kid? You're like a swan."

"I'm not happy right now. I want you to know that."

**Detective Monk Splice, 19, District 12**

When Missy finally let us in the house this afternoon, we started the interviews off with Rafael Rivera. Avenaye decided to take the lead.

"You know," he began. "It just so happens that you share a name with a certain teenage mutant ninja turtle."

"So?" Rafael asked in annoyance.

"So, color me delighted," Avenaye answered with a smile.

Rafael promptly ended the interview. We decided to leave while we were ahead.

Of course, the road back to the office happens to pass by a bar. So, obviously, we ducked our heads in for a second, just to make sure everything was legal in there. And now we're stumbling back to his house about seven hours later, in the complete darkness.

"I can't make it," I slur drunkenly. "I don't know where my legs went."

"Did you leave them at the bar? You're always forgetting shit!" Avenaye slurs back.

"I'm gonna lie here. I can't make it."

"Okay."

"Wait, don't leave me!"

"I don't want you in my house if you don't have... if you don't have legs." He hiccups and then giggles.

I throw myself onto his back.

"Carry me," I whine like a baby.

"You're... so... heavy," he breathes as he gives me a piggyback ride back to his house. "I mean, seriously, like... you totally weigh more than me."

"I eat my feelings, Avenue. I mean... Avenaye. Neigh. Like a horse. Your name sounds like a horse."

"Have you been drunking? Avenaye asks seriously. "'Cause if you've been drunking then you can't let potty see you... No, Scottie can't see you. You'll be a bad affluence. Influx? Influence? Influent?"

"It's influx," I correct. "I'd be a bad influx. At least I _think _I have acid influx."

"...I don't think that sounds right."

He fumbles with the key. When he finally opens the door, he doesn't have to bother turning on the light. Scottie is sitting at the bottom of the stairs in an elegant black skirt and purple dress shirt, looking like some kind of business executive.

"Oh, shit," is all Avenaye can say as he lets me slide off his back onto the cold, linoleum kitchen floor.

**Detective Avenaye Darwin, 33, District 12**

"The father-daughter dance," Scottie says. "You wouldn't miss it for the world. Your mind is like a steel trap."

"Hey, wait a minute," Monk pipes up. "You guys were supposed to take me to that."

"Scottie, I-" I try to explain myself, but Scottie cuts me off.

"This is why you didn't bother to show up? Because you'd rather be out drinking?"

"Of course not! I just-"

"I'm going to bed. It's one in the morning. I've been waiting for you for _five hours_."

"Shit," I breathe. "Scottie, come here. I'm sorry." I stumble to the stairs and try to hug her, but she dodges me.

"No. You're drunk."

"I'm not that drunk."

"Don't touch me!"

That stops me cold. My own daughter, my genius daughter with the perfect grades and work ethic, who only wanted to go the father-daughter dance... my daughter doesn't want me to touch her.

"Okay," I sigh, running my hand through my hair as I try to think what it is I'm supposed to do that will magically fix this situation.

"I think I'm gonna spend the week at Mom's."

"What? No, this week is my week! You can't go over there for two weeks."

"I already called her. My bags are all packed. She's picking me up tomorrow."

"Scottie! It's my week, and I'm telling you that you can't spend it at your mom's. Listen to me! Go to your room and unpack your bags. Right now."

"Oh, now you're gonna be my dad?" she snaps.

I hang my head shamefully. "It was just a dance. I'm sorry that I missed it, but I _promise_ I'll be at the next one."

"It's not about the dance! It's about _you_! You promised you'd be at _this_ dance, and the spelling bee, and my award ceremony, and my _birthday party_! You didn't even come to my birthday party!" Scottie starts to cry. That's when I notice there's no makeup on her face, and I'm proud of my little girl for not wasting her time and money on it. For the first time, I look at her outfit. I see that she's not wearing some skin-tight dress, but a nice skirt and dress shirt. Like a professional. My chest aches with pride for her and the knowledge that she'll never be proud of me.

"I'm sorry," I whisper again.

"Well, I'm mad, too," Monk interrupts drunkenly. "Except for me it _is_ about the dance. I don't mind that you didn't come to my spelling bee. I forgive you for that, because I didn't go either. But _the dance_! You _liar_! You were out drinking when you were supposed to be taking me to the _dance!_"

"I was out drinking with _you_!" I shout at Monk.

"Go ahead. Pass the blame to someone else. Promise-breaker!"

"I'm going home," Scottie tells me defiantly.

"You _are_ home!" I tell her.

"This is _not_ my home. A home is where someone tucks you in at night, not where someone takes your nightlight because he's afraid there's a monster in his closet. A _home_ is where someone uses the money to pay for the bills, not for a Twilight series audiobook set."

"There was a noise in the closet, and that was good buy," I mumble to myself.

"A home is where someone takes care of you. You can't even take care of yourself."

"Scottie, I-"

"You're a bad dad." She whispers it and then disappears up the stair_s. _

Bad dad. I'm a _bad dad._

"Yeah," Monk mumbles from the floor where she seems to be half-asleep. "Bad dad. That's what you are. I think I saw a porno with that title once."

I squeeze the stress from my eyes. The only reason I was out drinking is because I couldn't shake the image of the dead little girl on the table. I didn't realize how short the distance is between one drink and bad parenting.

Monk murmurs something else on the floor, and I reluctantly reach down and pick her up. I carry her to the couch; how can someone so short be so heavy? She immediately begins to drool on the couch cushions.

"You're a bad dad," she mumbles, eyes closed, as I cover her with a blanket. "...You're not my pretend dad anymore."

Now I have two knives in my heart. I mean, honestly... I'm not even good enough to be a _pretend_ dad?

"Okay, Monk," I say, patting her on the head. "I'm sorry." I don't know why I say it - it was technically her fault. She was the one who dragged me into the bar in the first place. And it's not like it's my responsibility to be her pretend dad.

But still. It _is_ my responsibility to look out for her, as the senior Detective partner. And I haven't really been doing that. Underage drinking was probably not a good call on my part.

"Good night," Monk yawns, eyes still closed.

"'Night." It takes all of my willpower to make it up the stairs and into bed. I kick off my shoes. Check the closet for monsters, just in case. Check under the bed, too. Because you never know. Flick the light off. Flick the nightlight on. Lay down on the comforter.

My alarm clock blinks three a.m. at me when something shakes me awake. Two hours of sleep. Great. The shaking becomes more aggressive, and I suddenly realize what's causing it.

"No! Get off me! I have a nightlight, you bastard!" I squirm under the covers, pulling them over my head - the only way I know to protect myself from monsters.

"Avenaye, get up! Please!" I recognize Monk's voice and the desperation in it. My heart slows down as I peek my head out of the covers and see her face in the light of the nightlight.

"What's wrong?" I ask, not really wanting to know. Because nothing scares Monk. Ever.

Her eyes are red, and I can see that she's been crying. That terrifies me. I didn't know she was capable of such a thing. Her voice is a hoarse whisper.

"Where's Ray?"


	6. The Bravest

**This chapter is completely arena-based! A heads-up, I've decided to make the next arena change permanent. I'm tired of doing all of the switches and ooh-look-where-we-are scenes. So the next arena the tributes are in (I won't keep you in suspense - it's going to be a huge shopping mall) will be the arena for the rest of the Games. **

**Anyways, there's lots of new alliances in this chapter. I hate to beg for reviews, but please! I only got three last chapter, and I love reading them and knowing what you think of the chapter and characters! But enough of that shameless begging - I've been swamped with work, which is why I've been totally behind on updating and everything, but I have next week off, so hopefully should be updating more soon. Thanks for reading! =D**

* * *

**Tani, 18, District 1**

A new arena materializes around me; I blink and find myself in a museum. Glancing down at my clothes, I realize I'm wearing black gloves, tight black pants, black boots, and a black jacket. Like I'm setting out to rob somebody...

And then I see the orange flag, resting in a glass case across the room. Could it really be this easy? I step forward and feel my right foot brush against something.

On the ground is a black backpack with _Tani_ stitched elegantly across the front in red. Next to the backpack is a belt holding ten knives. I quickly snatch the belt and tie it around my waist, vaguely wondering why it's so quiet. I sling the backpack onto my shoulders, deciding now isn't the best time to start rummaging through it, and jog toward the flag.

"Do you want to be buried or cremated?"

The cold voice stops me short; I slide a knife out of my belt as I spin to face the intruder. Irene stares at me from a doorway, dressed in a similar black outfit and holding a bow loosely in her left hand, a black backpack hanging off her right shoulder. She's my assigned ally, but can I really trust her?

"What are you talking about?" I ask warily, surreptitiously tightening my grip on the knife.

"Do you want to be buried or cremated? You should say it to the cameras now, since you're about to die."

I whip my arm around and throw the knife directly at her small body. But she was watching my every move, and as soon as my arm moved back, she ducked behind the wall. Too slow, Tani.

"I didn't mean I was going to kill you," she calls from behind the wall in a bored tone. "You're about to walk right into a trap."

"Stop playing games!" I shout angrily, suddenly fearful. "The next knife I throw won't miss!"

"The flag, Tani." She steps back into the room with me and points to the orange flag. "It's rigged. That's why we're dressed like thieves. We have to steal it."

"You're trying to trick me," I snap half-heartedly. What if she's telling the truth?

Irene uses her foot to kick my knife toward me, and it comes sliding across the floor. I stop it with my boot. Never moving my eyes from Irene, I pick up the knife and throw it at the flag. The moment the knife gets within ten feet of the glass casing, fifty red lasers suddenly shoot out from the wall, like in a freaking spy movie. My knife clatters noisily to the ground.

Irene nods at the lasers with satisfaction. I struggle with the question of whether or not I can trust her. After a moment, I make my decision.

"...How do we get the flag?" I ask her, waving her over to join me with my hand.

**Shiloh, 15, District 9**

I glance around lazily. Rooftop. Darkness. Stars.

One quick look over the edge shows me we're about three stories up. Not a pleasant fall. In the center of the roof is a large skylight, directly over a museum exhibit: one orange flag.

"Hey, bro!" Renton calls over to me excitedly, waving his hand in an ecstatic hello. I offer him a nod in return before searching the shadows of the roof for others.

"This isn't a safe height," Rollo's voice echoes unsteadily. "I don't think we're allowed up here!"

"Hey, gift bags!" Keir exclaims from another corner of the roof. "And they're _monogrammed_. Classy. I like it." She reaches for a black backpack at her feet, 'Keir' stitched in bright green block letters on the front. It's certainly not a gift bag, and there's the distinct possibility that it's a trap, but I don't bother mentioning this to Keir. Let her be the canary in the coal mine. If the bags are safe, great. If not, if they turn out to be bombs or something equally deadly, that's fine as well. One less competitor. "Ooh, camping gear! Flashlight, headlamp, sleeping bag, _tent_... Well, I'll be a monkey's uncle! They gave me a walkie-talkie _and _a cellphone! Damn, check out this cool watch!"

Keir excitedly pulls the goodies from her bag as I watch in surprise. At my own feet is an identical black backpack, however with the name 'Shiloh' stitched in orange cursive across the front. Rollo and Renton have bags of their own, which they bend to inspect.

Everyone has a walkie-talkie, cellphone, and watch. But instead of camping gear, Rollo receives a large collection of darts and a first aid kit. Renton gets a length of thick, black rope and several clips: rock-climbing gear. In my own backpack I find a sheath of arrows; a decent bow lies on the floor several feet away, and I quickly pick it up and examine it. As I study the shine of the deadly black weapon, a movement catches my eye from the opposite corner of the roof.

Loading my weapon happily, I keep a steady aim at the body attempting to hide in the shadows as I approach it.

"You want to live or die?" I ask simply, no venom in my voice.

Revlin stares up at me from the ground, his eyes tired behind a pair of cracked glasses. Holding his broken arm painfully, he closes his eyes and accepts defeat. He's tired, he's hurting, and he's done.

"That wasn't rhetorical," I continue calmly, raising my eyebrows at the boy. "I'll shoot you right now if you want me to. Up to you, man."

Revlin looks up at me, pain written across his face. He thinks I'm playing some kind of sick game with him.

"Are you in or out?" Keir asks, slapping a bright yellow miner's helmet on her head and flipping the light on so that it shines directly in Revlin's face. "Friend or foe? Yes or no?"

Turning his head from the bright light, Revlin croaks something out, clears his throat and tries again, his voice raspy. "I want to live. Please leave me alone."

"Hey, you got a bag, too!" Keir scrambles excitedly to the ground, ripping open Revlin's bag to find sewing needles. "Are you freaking kidding me? You a seamstress, Rev?"

"I just want to be alone."

"Hey, Renton? His arm supposed to look like that?"

Renton bounces over, happy to provide his expertise. Glancing curiously at Revlin's arm, Renton pops his own arm out of place and twists it into a funny position, similar to Revlin's own arm.

"Oh, yeah," Renton confirms, pulling his arm back into place. "Yeah, your arm's not supposed to do that."

"It's broken," I say simply, lowering my weapon and occupying myself by adjusting my new watch to fit my wrist.

"Oh, good heavens!" Rollo cries. "This is beyond our expertise, we need a doctor!"

"Nah, just gotta set the bone," Keir says nonchalantly, grabbing the broken arm. Revlin jerks his body away, crying out in pain.

"Just leave me alone!" he grunts. "I don't need your help!"

"Hold him down. This is gonna be fun." A sick smile creeps across Keir's face. Renton sits down and pulls Revlin's squirming body towards him, pressing his shoulders tightly against the ground. I grab Revlin's feet and hold them down. Keir reaches excitedly for the broken arm, but is interrupted by Rollo.

"Wait! Disinfect your hands first! I have a first aid kit, so you can wear gloves, too." He begins pulling the items out, but Keir simply rolls her eyes.

"Give her the gauze," I suggest as Revlin kicks his feet wildly. Rollo does as he's told.

Revlin screams bloody murder as Keir puts one hand on his forearm and one on his upper arm, then twists them in opposite directions. I feel a little nauseous and have to look away, but Renton is engrossed.

"There," Keir says happy. "You're welcome." She grabs Rollo's gauze and wraps Revlin's arm tightly to his chest, using so much gauze that he looks like a mummy someone started to wrap and quickly lost interest in.

"Get away from me!" Revlin shouts as we release him. He scrambles backward and hugs himself against a short fence that surrounds the roof.

"Ingrate," Keir scoffs in annoyance.

"Are you sure you set the bone right?" I ask curiously, rubbing the back of my neck.

"Of course. No one ever set _my_ bones for free." She shoots a disdainful glare at Revlin. "Gotta figure out how to do it yourself."

I shrug. Not my arm, what do I care?

"How do we get that flag down there?" Renton asks suddenly, his entire body lying pressed against the glass of the skylight.

**Calvin (Cal), 18, District 5**

"Let Lola go!" I plead on my knees, my hands clasped before me in a beg.

"Whatever," Honora laughs mean-spiritedly, tossing Lola carelessly aside. I leap forward and catch Lola in my arms as Honora strides toward a large painting on the wall.

"Hey, check it out," she calls over her shoulder. "A nude." Honora tosses her hair behind her and winks at me, her long eyelashes brushing her cheek softly. I look away from the painting, embarrassed by the body parts some sicko drew.

Honora suddenly hushes me as we hear voices echo from the adjacent room.

"Where are we?" Saren asks.

"A museum," Elisabeth answers.

They're interrupted by a sickening gasping noise.

"Alice!" Saren cries. "Elisabeth, I don't think she can breathe!"

Alice, the sick girl. I hug Lola closer to my body, hiding my face in her hair in an effort to block out the world.

"Cal," Honora hisses. I open my eyes to find her leaning over me, a sinister smile on her face. "Watch this." She spins around perfectly, hair whipping out behind her, and pulls a knife from her belt as she stalks determinedly into the other room. I crawl to the archway and watch cowardly from a distance.

"Honora," Elisabeth breathes, her face paling. None of them have noticed the three bags in the corner, each with one of their names stitched delicately in pink. Which means none of them have any weapons.

"Who wants to go first?" Honora asks her captive audience. "No volunteers? Fine. Eenie, meenie, miney, mo..." She smiles as her bobbing hand goes still, pointed directly at Alice.

"No, please," Saren whimpers, clutching Alice's hand tightly.

"Rules are rules." Honora strides toward the young girls.

"Wait!" Elisabeth screams. "You need a flag. I'll get it for you."

Honora pauses, tilts her head sideways, and rests it on one delicate hand. "Come again?" she asks innocently.

"You can't get to the next level without an orange flag. There's one in this room. I'll get it for you if you leave them alone."

"I'm scared," Lola whispers to me.

"I know," I tell her, hugging her even tighter. "It's okay. I'll protect you." I will. I have to be the strong one, for Lola. Even though my heart is beating like a little hummingbird and my hands are trembling, I have to be strong. Strong enough to keep my eyes open and watch, no matter how much I want to clench them shut and pretend this isn't happening. Strong even though I'd rather not be.

In one swift motion, Honora grabs Saren's arm with her left hand and Alice's shirt with her right, dragging the two girls toward Elizabeth, who now stands beside a narrow hole in the ground. The flag must be at the bottom. I press myself closer to the ground, silently begging them not to turn around and see me. What would happen if they did? Could one of the tiny girls hurt me? Could they hurt Lola? I bet they could kill us, no problem. I squint my eyes shut, embarrassed by the tears leaking out. I can't let Lola see me cry.

"Try anything funny and I kill them both," Honora says sweetly. "Now, jump."

"It's too far to jump," Elisabeth gasps. "It must be a thirty-foot drop."

"Then I guess you'd better land on your feet, eh?"

"I can't jump into there." Elisabeth's voice is pleading.

"Okay, girls. Elisabeth wants you to die. Now, I don't want any blood on my shoes, so stand-"

Elisabeth interrupts her by stepping into the hole. Mere seconds later, we're greeted by a thud, crack, and ear-splitting scream. Terrified, I crawl behind the wall, completely hidden from their view, and bite down on my fist to keep from screaming.

"Oh, sweetie, I think you broke your leg in a few places," Honora calls down to Elisabeth, her voice sugary-sweet. "Now I'm going to need you to throw that flag up here or you won't be the only one in this room who can't walk anymore." She sing-songs this last part, her fingers playing innocently with Saren's hair. The only response she gets from Elisabeth is a mangle of sobs, gasps, and screams.

I inch forward once more and see Saren staring down into the pit, tears brushing her cheeks as she fights back sobs.

"CAL!" Honora roars. My entire body shakes violently as I snap to attention, scrambling to my feet with Lola by my side. "Grab a curtain and bring it over here, NOW!" All sweetness is gone from her voice. I choke back my own sobs as I race to a painting and grab one of the curtains framing it. Tugging at it only results in the curtain rod falling on my head, knocking me to the ground as I'm engulfed by both curtains.

"_Calvin__,"_ Honora growls in a warning tone. I can't untangle myself fast enough. By the time I bring the curtain to Honora, my other hand still tightly clasped around Lola, she's fuming.

"Now lower it down to the cripple in the hole," Honora commands. I do as she orders. She then turns her attention back to Elisabeth, and I'm thrilled to be free of her wrath. "Hey, you! Crybaby! Stop your whining and tie the flag to this!"

Elisabeth, still gasping and sobbing, does as she's told. I pull the curtain back up and clasp the orange flag in my hand.

"Brilliant," Honora says happily. She snatches the flag from my hand and secures it in her belt. Grabbing the curtain from me as well, she ties it tightly to a small fountain in the corner of the room and then drops the other end back into the hole. She points to me. "You watch these two." I glance unsurely at Saren and Alice.

"I'd really rather not-" I begin, but Honora ignores me and climbs down the curtain. "Okay. Okay. Okay, this is fine. We're all okay. Don't... don't panic. We... we just have to wait a few seconds, and I'm sure she'll come back up and tell us what to do again. We're okay." I say this completely for the benefit of Lola, but Saren and Alice stare up at me, tears in their eyes, and hang on my every word. "I'm sorry, if you don't mind, this is kind of a private conversation." They don't catch on. I point to Lola. "She's my girlfriend, so if you guys could just leave us alone... this is really none of your business. I'm just trying to have a conversation with my girlfriend, and you're staring at me and you're making me uncomfortable and I-"

"No!" Elisabeth shrieks from the hole. Honora cackles. "Please, no!"

A cannon, and then silence.

The curtain moves as Honora begins to climb back up it.

"She killed Elisabeth!" Saren cries, her sobs returning.

"No, don't cry!" I beg. She's upsetting Lola. "You're fine! Here, look, you have presents!" I point excitedly to the three backpacks in the corner of the room, hoping to distract the little girls with them. Something lights in Saren's eyes as she sees the backpacks. Then she stares at me, the only thing between her and her present.

"No, no, no, no, no!" I say quickly. "You don't want to do anything you'll regret! _Don't hurt me!_" I throw myself and Lola to the ground, covering our heads with my hands. I only risk raising my head again when Honora screams in my face.

"You let them get away!"

I stare into a face of pure fury.

"They _attacked_ me," I lie, sobbing like a baby. "They-they bullied me! They called me names and they pushed me to the ground, and they t-told me not to t-tell you or else they'd hurt me _real bad_! Honora, those were bad kids! I want to go home!"

When she slaps me across the face, it takes all of my hysteria away immediately. I'm too shocked to speak. Once the shock starts to wear off, my chest burns and I breathe heavily. Why does a slap across the face feel like a sucker punch to the gut?

"You need to chill out, Cal," Honora says flippantly. "Seriously. You're, like, such a drama queen."

**Alexei, 16, District 10**

"Making a scrapbook?" I ask with a yawn as Beni snaps yet another picture.

"Mocking me?" she retorts, scribbling something on a picture. I glance over her shoulder and see my face staring back at me, the word _bully_ written incriminatingly beneath it. That kind of makes me feel a little like a jerk, alienating the only girl in the group, someone who's just trying to do the best she can to accommodate her memory problem. I brush the feeling off; it was just one comment. I don't need to apologize, she's gotta know I'm not _really _bullying her.

"Beni, quick, take a picture!" Angus shouts. Before I can stop him, he's jumping from a tall packing crate to a much lower one. Beni turns around in surprise just in time to see him tumbling across the lower crate, howling in pain. I resist an eye-roll as Beni and I race over to the dumb kid, who's now clutching his toe as his body shakes with great, wailing sobs.

"Angus!" I say, trying to distract him from the pain in his toe, which is probably not as great as he's making it out to be. "Angus, buddy, what were you doing?"

"I-I was-" he struggles to breathe through the sobs. "-Was s-s-swooping down to... to save the... civilians like... like B-B-Batman!" This brings on a new round of tears. Loud ones.

"Tell us what hurts, buddy."

"M-m-my TOE!" he wails.

"Okay, Angus? Angus, can you look at me for a second, man?" Still blubbering, he raises his eyes to meet mine. "I need you to be really brave for me right now, Angus. Like Batman. Can you do that for me?" In his concentration, he forgets to cry. His lower lip still trembles as he nods gravely, but at least the waterworks are momentarily on hold. I pull his sock gently from his foot - why on earth isn't he wearing shoes? - and inspect his big toe. "Ah. I see the problem, buddy. You got a splinter." This realization threatens to unleash another round of tears; I quickly assure Angus that this is no big deal. "All we have to do is get a needle, and we'll be able to get it out in a second. I promise."

"So, that's your thing, huh?" Mathias asks me, coming from around another stack of packing crates. "A foot fetish?"

"Angus has a splinter in his toe," I tell Mathias nonchalantly, still annoyed by his presence. I took an immediate disliking to him because he took an immediate disliking to Angus and Beni - and who can blame him, really? But Angus is my assigned ally, and Beni is Mathias'. And I can already tell that Mathias has no loyalty to any of us. How could he, if he's willing to kill his own sister to win this thing? Angus and Beni may not have the brains or memory to notice that Mathias doesn't like them, but I have plenty of both, and Mathias' attitude toward the others has been rubbing me the wrong way all day.

"Well, while you guys were taking care of that medical emergency, I found the flag."

I resist another eye-roll and curse myself for agreeing to watch after the others in the basement as Mathias went on a fact-finding mission upstairs.

"Great, Scooby, now can you find me a needle?" I ask Mathias impatiently. Mathias tosses the flag onto a random crate and searches through our backpacks for a first aid kit, which he tosses at me a little roughly, if I may say so.

"Angus, remember what we talked about?" I ask him, looking at his childish eyes, wide and trusting. "Brave as Batman?" He nods. "Okay. Hold Beni's hand, alright? It'll be over in a minute, I promise."

Angus grips Beni's hand tightly and squeezes his eyes shut. I use the needle to maneuver the splinter out, after several tries, all the while ignoring Angus's squeals and gasps.

"There," I announce. "All done."

Angus risks opening one eye, as if he's not sure he believes me. Finally, his face relaxes and he releases Beni's hand. "Was I brave?" he asks me shyly.

"Angus," I tell him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "You were the bravest." His face erupts in a giant smile. I help him find his shoes, even double-knot them for him, and make him promise not to do any more stunts until we have a video camera. Then I pray that the sponsors don't send us one.

By now, all light has disappeared from the basement of the museum. We're left with two flashlights, one of which Beni is using to take notes on her pictures. Mathias uses the other to show Angus how to make shadow puppets. Nice use of our time and limited batteries, guys. Way to go.

I make myself a private little corner by rearranging some packing crates and lay on my back, staring at the ceiling. Sleep doesn't come. Not even after Mathias disappears back upstairs for some unknown reason and Angus begins to snore.

After about an hour of mindlessly staring at the ceiling, I'm bored to tears. Bored enough that I climb out of my corner and follow the shine of Beni's flashlight. She doesn't hear me approach her, so I stare over her shoulder at her collection of pictures. Beneath Mathias she's written: _Ally, smart, found flag. _Angus's picture jumps out at me. _Ally, nice, the bravest._ I realize Beni took my earlier comment to Angus as praise, rather than as the comforting lie it truly was. Oh, well. I quickly find my own picture. _Bully, nurse._ Nurse?

"That one's wrong," I point out indignantly, forgetting Beni doesn't realize I'm here. She jumps up, slipping on her pictures as she points the flashlight directly at me. I block my eyes with my hands until she lowers the light to the ground and scrambles to find my picture. It doesn't tell her much, except that I'm apparently both a bully and a nurse. "Didn't mean to scare you, just... that one's wrong." I point to my picture, now in her hand.

"What do you want?" she whispers in terror.

"I want for someone _not_ to find that picture and think that I'm a nurse."

"You're my... ally?"

"Yeah, kinda. It's temporary."

"You won't kill me?"

"Not tonight. Probably."

"...You saved Angus."

I raise my eyebrows, survived the memory came back to her. Not all of it, apparently, but some of it.

"Took a splinter out of his toe," I correct. "Didn't really _save_ him. Remember?" Suddenly, I'm curious. _Can_ she remember? It's a little cruel, but I decide to do an experiment. To quench my curiosity, as it were. "You held his hand. Remember?" Her eyes dart across my face, her mind struggling to unlock a memory when she doesn't have the key. "He fell. Hurt his toe. He had a splinter, so I got a needle. And you held his hand. Like this." I take her hand in my own and squeeze it the way Angus did earlier. "Remember? I told him to be Batman? He asked if he had been brave, and I said-"

"The bravest," Beni whispers, staring into my eyes with deep concentration, as if finding the answer there.

I laugh. "Yeah, that's right. The bravest. You remembered."

"The bravest. _The bravest_. You said the bravest. When Angus got a splinter. Earlier." Her eyes are shining, a smile growing on her face. "And I forgot. But you remembered, and you made me remember. The bravest. _I remember._" She laughs, and for some reason I laugh with her. And then I'm caught up in the moment - she remembered a detail from hours ago, I was the one who helped her remember, maybe she isn't a lost cause after all, maybe I can get her to erase the words from my picture so that whoever finds them doesn't read the embarrassing label of _nurse_, she suddenly seems like a normal girl instead of an old woman with memory loss, the flashlight falls on us in a spotlight and makes us seem utterly alone in the darkness, my hand is still holding hers, I wonder if Mathias died and that's why he hasn't come back yet and how great would that be, and she's laughing right now and smiling at me and I'm laughing and smiling back and how often does that happen in the Hunger Games and I'm standing so close to her, and I might as well kiss her because it could be my last kiss ever.

I'm kissing her and she's kissing me back. It's not because she's attractive, or because I like her or anything. Actually, I'm thinking of Honora, the prettiest girl in the arena, and of another girl back in District 10 who's got a nice face to look at; Beni barely even crosses my mind, to be quite honest. But she's here, and I'm here, and our arms are around each other, we're making out, and I'm pulling her closer to me, unaware for a moment that she's trying to pull away.

"What are you doing?" she cries in terror, desperately trying to shove me away. "Let me go! Please! _Get off of me_!"

"Beni, stop!" I say, caught completely by surprise. I know I should let go of her, but I feel the need to calm her down first, just so that she doesn't go running away screaming, alerting everyone in the arena to where I am. "Beni, it's Alexei! We're allies! You have to be quiet, Be-"

My grip on Beni is suddenly broken as a strong hand pushes me away. And suddenly Mathias is there, his arm around Beni's shoulder, and even though she doesn't remember him at all she trusts him, simply because the alternative would be to trust me, and she's not going to do that.

"You think you can do whatever you want to girls just because we're in the arena?" Mathias asks me quietly, stepping closer and pinning me against a stack of packing crates. "Is that what you think?"

"No, you don't get it," I try to tell him. "We were just kissing, and she was totally fine with it, by the way, and then all of a sudden she just... she forgot, you know? She forgot and she freaked, and that's it!"

"She just all of a sudden _forgot_ she wanted to be kissing you? That's why she was screaming?"

"No, that... okay, that sounds bad, but that's what happened!"

He gets even closer to me, and I worry that he'll choke me out.

"Don't think you can hurt her just because she won't remember. Because _I'll_ remember, Alexei. Got it?"

"Oh, come on, man! I wasn't _hurting_ her, she-"

Suddenly his hand is on my left shoulder, and he's squeezing. Hard. I grunt, feeling as though his fingers will press clean through my skin and reach bone. Finally, he releases my shoulder. I wonder what color the bruises will be.

"I don't care if you kill her," Mathias continues. "But don't _touch_ her. You understand me?"

I nod, rubbing my shoulder, and realize that Mathias isn't a bad guy after all. He's a good brother to Natia, I'm sure, if this is any indication. But he does hate my guts, so that's important to remember, too.

When Mathias turns around, Beni is gone. _Beni. _A tiny seed of anger plants itself deep inside my brain. I won't act on it. Anger is pointless.

And yet I can't help but wonder if that seed will grow, even without my permission.

* * *

**Deaths:**

_Elisabeth Kingston, 16, District 11_

* * *

Alliances

**One:**

_Revlin "Lin" Trent, 15, District 2_

_Shiloh Aries, 15, District 9_

_Rollo Alambre, 14, District 3_

_Kier Rori, 16, District 6_

_Renton Windsor, 15, District 11_

**Two:**

_Honora Garrish, 17, District 4_

_Calvin "Cal" Breckin, 18, District 5_

**Three:**

_Saren Rockford, 12, District 2_

_Alice Ray Adlanji, 12, District 3_

**Four:**

_Tani Dulls, 18, District 1_

_Irene Adrassi, 16, District 10_

**Five:**

_Beni Cael, 16, District 7_

_Angus Dooley, 14, District 6_

_Mathias Densen, 17, District 8_

_Alexei Brier, 16, District 10_

**Six:**

_Puck Groven, 15, District 12, _

_Micaela "Mike" Ritmo, 16, District 5_

**Loners:**

_Natia Densen, 15, District 8_

_Kenneth Raleigh, 12, District 1_

_Patrick Finster, 13, District 7_

_Annalee Korenei, 13, District 9_


End file.
